Blind Man's Bluff
by Inhoe Publishing
Summary: Spock's mind was racing. He had seen the words on Jim Kirk's lips, the words silently repeated as unconsciousness claimed him: They were waiting for me. An assault on Kirk leaves the Captain unable to see and with no memory of what happened. As McCoy fights a powerful toxin that is poisoning the Captain, Spock races to discover who attacked his friend, before it happens again.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Jim came to consciousness slowly, though he only remembered opening his eyes to a distorted view. Blurry images floated disjointedly above him – spectral figures of ash and oyster that moved like smoke in the slate grey air. The room tipped and spun in sync with the staccato buzzing in his head. Nausea rose to the back of his throat. He blinked to clear his vision, but it remained veiled.

My god, it was difficult to breathe. He couldn't seem to get enough air in his lungs, didn't have enough strength to draw breath to satisfy his body's hunger for it. He was suffocating. Something soft and unyielding covered his nose and mouth, pressing against him. He rolled his head to shake it off, and that's when he felt the pain. It centered on his left knee, a sharp gnawing pain eating away at his flesh, chewing into the cartilage, burning a trail into his thigh down to his calf.

He groaned and moved against the pain, as if he might escape it.

A warm hand pressed at his chest and he tried to knock it away, to get free, but the hand was strong and immovable. He couldn't focus to see who they were; all he saw were blurry figures, dark and shadowed. They were coming for him and he had to move. His hand was caught by something soft and warm and held. His knee screamed in agony.

Where had they come from? They weren't supposed to be here.

Voices drifted above him, but he couldn't understand what they were saying, the language alien. He only knew they weren't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be alone, but they had been waiting.

He wanted to breathe…to move. He wanted the pain to stop.

* * *

"Doctor," the nurse said, offering McCoy the hypo he had requested.

"It's okay, Kate," he said, keeping a protective hand on Jim's chest. "He's unconscious."

He glanced up at the monitor and studied the readouts with concern. Jim's temperature was 40.2 and climbing. The toxins invading his body were wreaking havoc on his respiratory system, interfering with the autonomic nervous system. The oxygen mask was pumping in one hundred percent oxygen at 15LPM, and Jim's SO2 was still below eighty percent.

"He's struggling," Kate said. "I think that's a good sign."

He didn't comment. For the past three days, Jim had been in the isolation room as McCoy and his staff fought to keep the young captain alive. Until eleven hours ago, Jim had been on full respiratory support, a machine breathing for him, while the toxins attained full effect in his body. When Jim began to fight the intubation, he removed the support in favor of the mask. But Jim's slow and agonizing rise to consciousness was both positive and negative. The monitor showed high levels of endorphin release, indicating pain. The broad-spectrum antigen being administered intravenously was counter-active to pain meds—one of the reasons he was grateful that Jim was unconscious.

"Do you want to run another tox scan?" Kate asked.

He shook his head, not looking away from the monitor. Another scan wasn't going to change anything. Until they knew what they were dealing with, he had no way to counteract the toxins. He had just barely kept them from spreading. He looked down at Jim's left leg and winced.

The arrow he had removed from the knee had severed both the anterior cruciate and posterior cruciate ligaments before lodging deep into the tibial plateau. The patellar tendon was gone and the only thing holding the knee together was the medial meniscus. Though substantial, the damage was easily repairable by medical means, but the arrow had injected a highly aggressive, unknown toxin that was killing the cells and soft structures around the knee. He couldn't operate to repair the ligament damage until the toxins were cleared. He had elevated Jim's leg to slow the edema and to stabilize it, but the entire area around the knee was purple and swollen.

"Will you be doing another I and D?" Kate asked, following his gaze to Jim's knee.

He had drained the knee once, with minimal results, but he didn't want to do another procedure if he didn't have to. The knee was already unstable, and inserting drainage tubes risked more damage. As it was, the toxins were destroying the cells. If he didn't find a serum fast, Jim's leg would suffer permanent damage.

The double doors to the isolation room hissed open, drawing his attention. He felt the air pressure shift slightly as the room's sterile field reset. Christine Chapel, the _Enterprise's_ new head nurse, stood just inside the doorway.

"Doctor, Mr. Spock is waiting in the main bay. He wants an update on the Captain's condition."

His mouth tightened. There was nothing to update. He didn't know anything more about the alien toxins than he had three days ago. All he knew for certain was that they were killing Jim.

"Stay with him," he said to Christine, indicating Kirk. "Hang another unit of K14. Watch the O2 sat and let me know the second he wakes."

"Yes, Doctor."

He felt the familiar pop in his ears when he exited the room and walked into the main area of the medical bay. Spock stood near the central desk, looking as if he'd just arrived to gather McCoy for pleasant dinner and conversation. That was the thing about the Vulcan that bothered McCoy the most, the man's inability to show proper concern, even frustration. Here was Spock, thrust in command of the _Enterprise _while its Captain lay fighting for his life after an attack by an obviously sentient being, and the Starfleet designated "Uninhabited" planet turning peacefully beneath them. The man could at least look annoyed.

"I told you I'd update you when I had something," he said to Spock. He was annoyed at being pulled away from Jim.

"And I told you, Doctor, that I wanted an update every four hours. You are twenty minutes overdue."

"So shoot me," McCoy said and dropped into the chair at the desk, suddenly realizing how tired he was. The main bay was quiet, except for an Engineering crewman with a minor injury. The young ensign was waiting to be discharged to his quarters, and he sat impatiently on one of the beds. The orders for his release were flashing on the small screen in front of McCoy. He ignored them.

"Until you give me the chemical compounds of this toxin and its origin, I'm working blind."

"I have dispensed a full team of biologists to the planet's surface. They are searching for the components that were found in the toxin."

"It's about time."

The Vulcan had been leery about sending anyone to the planet's surface since Jim's attack, siting regulations and procedures. Not that McCoy wanted anyone else injured, but he needed more information if he was going treat Jim. "I don't even know if the poison is plant or animal. It acts like both. Every time I think I have it isolated, it attacks another area."

Not only was Jim's respiratory system affected, but the toxin had targeted the occipital lobe of his brain as well, affecting his vision. McCoy didn't know to what degree, because Jim hadn't been conscious long enough to communicate.

"Is the Captain stable?"

"For now." He rubbed the back of his neck to ease the tension that had settled in the muscles. "He's breathing on his own, but just barely. It's his leg I'm most worried about. If we can't slow this toxin, it's going to destroy most of the muscle. I hope the landing party comes up with something soon."

"You should prepare for an alternative, Doctor."

He scowled up at Spock. "What alternative?"

"The landing party may not be successful." Spock pulled his hands behind his back. "It is entirely possible that the toxin has been bioengineered."

If the Vulcan had said he was pregnant, McCoy wouldn't have been more surprised. "That's a hell of a jump. This planet is a storeroom of phytochemicals. It's one of the reasons we were sent here. I went on the first landing party and made my recommendations to Starfleet."

"I read your report."

"Then you know it's entirely possible the toxins came from the planet, and anyway, that's where Jim was when he was attacked."

Spock took a breath and lowered his shoulders. "Doctor, are you forgetting that this planet is officially designated as Uninhabited and there has been and remains no evidence of indigenous sentient beings?"

"Of course I'm not forgetting, but someone attacked Jim!"

"Obviously." The Vulcan's tone was infuriatingly calm.

The arrow McCoy had extracted from Jim's knee was primitive to say the least, and yet the blend of toxins used was proving to be highly sophisticated. Was it possible that some being had landed on the planet and saw Jim as a threat? Was that someone still there, somehow avoiding the ship's scanners? Piracy was not uncommon this far out into the Frontier.

"Maybe Jim stumbled onto something he wasn't supposed to see," he said, thinking out loud.

"We searched the area where the Captain was injured and found no signs of other life. The unknown assailant is either very clever at remaining hidden, or has already left the planet. Were there any other marks on the Captain's body that would indicate a struggle?"

"No."

"You are certain? The Captain is not given to easy surrender."

McCoy looked up at Spock with barely concealed impatience. "Spock, I know that man's body better than I know my own. There were no signs of struggle. Not even a pulled muscle."

It had struck him as odd when he had first examined Jim. Jim was a born fighter and wouldn't go down easily. McCoy had a difficult time believing that a single arrow – even one filled with poison – would be enough to bring Jim down without resistance.

"That is unfortunate," Spock said. "Unless the landing party discovers something of importance, the Captain is the only one who can provide us with answers as to what transpired."

"He's still unconscious," McCoy said by way of ending the conversation. Jim had been with an experienced landing party in the third wave to beam down when he separated from the group. His bio monitor alarm, standard equipment for off-ship crew, had sounded an alert. The landing party had not noticed Jim's disappearance until Spock ordered an emergency beam-out. Jim was unconscious when he materialized on the transporter pad.

"If it's bio-engineered, it's damn sophisticated," McCoy said in a low voice. "Why deliver such a complex poisonous compound with such a primitive weapon? If someone has the know-how to create a poison like this, they should have a better way of delivering it than by a crude arrow."

"Crude as it is, Doctor, it has proven to be highly effective." Spock raised his eyebrows slightly. "You will inform me the moment he is conscious." It was not a question.

McCoy nodded. The screen flashed in front of him. He signed for the ensign's release and called up Jim's file, reviewing the toxicology report again, hoping he would find something he had missed, something that would slow the progression of the poison that was slowly killing his friend.

* * *

The landing party returned with hundreds of samples of plant extracts and insect DNA, none of which matched the chemical design of the toxin. McCoy was forced to continue to treat Jim's symptoms, to try to keep the cellular damage at bay.

The K14, a synthetic antigen – and one of the few antigens Jim tolerated – was gradually taking effect, slowing the progression of the toxin. The bio and chem labs had been working around the clock to find an antidote when it seemed as though the toxin suddenly stopped its acceleration. Like a fever peaking, the toxin began a methodical decline. And that meant that Spock was right – the toxin was bio-engineered. Nothing in nature had a kill gene.

McCoy stood by the bed, intently studying the monitor. Jim's respirations were slow and shallow, though his Sats were coming up. Not enough for McCoy to remove the oxygen mask. Jim's body needed to flush out the toxins completely before the symptoms would abate. And even then, McCoy wasn't certain what damage would be left behind, or if he could repair it.

A soft moan drew his attention.

He looked down at Jim, lying alarmingly still on the bio-bed. There was a flush in his cheeks from the high fever, but the rest of his skin was sickly pale and beaded with sweat. His brows twitched.

It was 0100 and he'd been watching Jim cycle toward consciousness for the past hour, feeling both anxious and anticipatory. He wanted the reassurance of being able to speak with Jim, but he was uncertain as to how his friend was going to react, or how much pain he would be in.

The door to the isolation room opened, but McCoy didn't turn away from Jim. He knew who had entered. He walked around to the other side of the bed and lowered the cooling blanket to reveal the central venous line he had placed in Jim's subclavian vein. Two ports attached to the main catheter, one was for the K14 and the other pushed in essential fluids to stabilize the bio chemicals and keep him from dehydrating. He examined the catheter, as if to busy himself.

Soft, cat-like steps approached the bed from behind him, almost indiscernible from the steady beeps and rhythms of the monitor.

Jim's eyes flickered. His heart rate increased.

McCoy placed a hand on Jim's sternum, noting the hot flesh.

Another low moan.

He glanced at Spock who had come to a standstill on the opposite side of the bed. "He's coming around. I don't know how coherent he's going to be. His fever is still high and he's going to be in pain."

The Vulcan looked down at the sleeping human with concern. "You are giving him an analgesic?"

He shook his head. "I can't give him anything until the K14 is complete. He needs that now more than an analgesic."

Jim's eyes fluttered open. They were clouded and unfocused, a murky blue dulled by pain and the poison.

He put a hand on Jim's forehead, both as a means to anchor his patient and to provide comfort. Jim would be confused and in pain, and McCoy wanted him to know he was safe. Leaning in close, he spoke calmly and reassuringly. "Jim, you're in Sickbay."

Jim's scowl deepened. His eyes blinked. He rolled his head along the pillow, moaning. The monitor pinged, but McCoy didn't look away from his patient. He could feel Jim's heart hammering against the palm of his hand.

"You've been hurt, but you're safe now."

A shudder rippled through Kirk. He continued to blink, trying to focus. He spoke a few words, but they were muffled by the oxygen mask and unintelligible to McCoy. His breathing was rapid and shallow. Without warning, his hand came up and made a clumsy grasp for the mask. McCoy quickly captured Jim's hand.

"You have on an oxygen mask. It's helping you to breathe."

Kirk spoke again, moving his head along the pillow. His eyes were fully open now and large with distress, still struggling to focus. Sweat rolled down his forehead.

"You're on the ship. Do you understand what I'm saying, Jim?"

Jim squeezed his hand.

"Good. I need you to lie still."

Another alarm sounded. McCoy glanced up. It was the respiratory alarm, indicating Jim's distress. He quickly silenced it and turned his attention back to his patient. "Don't fight it so much. Breathe easy. That's it."

McCoy waited for the respirations to slow, but the heart still hammered rapidly. "Good. Small breaths."

Jim kept blinking and looking around, and McCoy knew that his confusion was compounded by the lack of sight and the increased pain. His face was pinched now as the pain took more of his attention.

"I know you can't see well. It'll be okay. It's just temporary." Without moving, he shifted his gaze to Spock and spoke in a low, calm voice. "If you're going to ask him something, do it now. He won't be conscious much longer."

Spock stepped in and McCoy moved back, still holding Jim's hand.

"Captain," Spock said, leaning down toward Jim's head. "You were brought up from the planet with an arrow in your leg. Do you remember what happened?"

Jim said something McCoy could not understand. He watched as Jim moved restlessly, face pinched and distressed. There was desperation in the dull blue eyes and something akin to fear. He released the warm, limp hand and laid a calming hand on Jim's flat belly, hoping to still the restless motions.

"The ship is not in danger. The crew is safe," Spock said. "Do you remember how you became wounded?"

Another muffled word.

"Yes…someone. Did you see who it was?" Spock tilted his head to position his ear closer to Jim's mouth. "Red?"

Jim shut his eyes. His breathing had become labored and he struggled against the mask. A deep moan. He struck out with his arm, catching hold of Spock's left shoulder. McCoy couldn't tell if he was speaking yet or not, but Spock's face had become deadly serious.

An alarm sounded softly.

McCoy looked up at the monitor. "That's enough, Spock." He reached for a loaded hypo and pressed it against Kirk's neck. Within seconds, Jim's features relaxed as the mild sedative took effect. McCoy hated using it, with Jim's respirations already low, but the increased pain only compromised Jim's situation. It was a balancing game the doctor played with patients like Jim who had extensive histories of allergies. Studying the monitor again, he felt a small sense of relief. Jim was out of pain and dropping into the depths of unconsciousness.

Spock straightened; his features schooled and cold.

"What did he tell you?" McCoy asked, eyeing the Vulcan.

"Enough to warrant a lockdown."

McCoy blinked, stunned. "A lockdown?"

It was an extreme command that effectively prevented any crewmember from entering or leaving the ship. It also meant that no communications could be sent from the _Enterprise, _and all incoming communications would go unanswered. That included Starfleet Command.

"I am initiating Security Level One protocol. There will be a guard on the Captain's door. The guard will be outside of the isolation room, and only authorized personnel will be allowed inside."

"A guard. Wait a minute, Spock…."

"He is not to be left alone. If he leaves the room for any reason a guard is to accompany him.

"Leave the room? Where would he go?"

But the Vulcan was already moving, determination quickening his pace.

"Spock." He rushed to follow. "What the hell did Jim tell you?"

The doors opened and closed as they sailed through into the main bay.

"Damn it, Spock, will you answer me?"

Spock stopped and turned so suddenly that McCoy almost collided with him. The doctor stepped back. There was something almost feral in the First Officer's expression, something lethal and unapproachable. McCoy had seen it before when the Vulcan had stood like a guard at the side of Jim's bed during the two weeks the Captain had been in a coma after climbing into the warp core. Spock had worn a Vulcan mask that veiled human compassion in favor of logic. But no, it wasn't that either. Logic had little to do with what McCoy now saw on the stern features.

"I have made my decision, Doctor. I do not want the Captain left alone while I investigate this incident."

"You think someone _on this ship_ did this to Jim?" It was absurd. There hadn't been a crewmember assassination attempt on a Starship captain in the history of Starfleet, and the thought that one of their own, a trusted individual with whom they shared a common living space, would intentionally harm Jim was even more absurd.

"My job is to eliminate the possibilities and protect the Captain."

"Someone on this ship?" McCoy repeated incredulously. The thought made his stomach tighten. "Why would someone on this ship want to hurt Jim? And where the hell would they have gotten a weapon like this?"

Jim was just shy of twenty-eight and already a legend, though he'd only been a Starship Captain for a little less than three years. In that time he'd made plenty of dangerous enemies. The most recent, if rumors were to be believed, was the Klingon Empire. Romulus would be happy to take a piece of him, as well, even though Nero had no longer represented his home world and, as Nero had said, 'stood apart' from the Empire. Romulans kept to themselves and were rarely seen by the Federation, still an enigma in many ways. McCoy wondered if they were even capable of such a covert and dishonorable attack. Klingons, on the other hand….

"That, Doctor, is precisely what I intend to find out." Spock stood tight-lipped and ramrod straight.

No. McCoy mentally shook his head. He wouldn't believe it. He _couldn't _believe it. "Spock, listen, Jim is in pain, he's confused, and the toxins are affecting the temporal lobe of his brain. He may not remember what happened, and is telling you something that isn't even real."

"Until such a time as I ascertain the validity of his statement, we will progress with the understanding that what he has told me is, indeed, real."

With that, the Vulcan left, leaving McCoy standing in the medical bay. With Spock's words ringing in his ears, he looked around the large medical area. Capable and dedicated medical staff came and went, moving about the area, checking on supplies, appointments, reviewing files and making certain the individual bio-beds and stations were ready for patients and any type of medical emergency at any moment. It's what activity in the bay looked like on any given day – routine and innocuous.

Nothing out of the ordinary…and yet…. He felt his brows draw together and tightness pull in his stomach. Without another thought, he returned to Jim's room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Jim was aware first of the pain. It was sharpest in his left knee, a hot steel blade driven deep then wrenched, allowing him no reprieve. He shifted slightly, as if to move away from the pain, but quickly discovered that he was restrained. Something warm and unyielding held his injured leg, twisting it into an unnatural position that seemed to enhance the incessant stabbing. Despite the agony in his knee, his leg was paralyzed from his upper thigh down, and all he could do was lie unmoving as the pain chewed into him with sharp, gnawing teeth.

What the hell happened? He was on the bridge, wasn't he? No. No, he'd gone planetside. His thoughts wavered and drifted. He couldn't seem to hold onto an image or idea. He had a sense of urgency, of something he must do, but that also faded as the pain rose.

It was so difficult to breathe. A tight band was wrapped around his chest, crushing his lungs. Every slight breath he drew took a tremendous effort. He hungered for air, but his lungs protested with each faint breath as if he were inhaling broken glass. Tiny shards punctured his lungs and ripped at the center of his chest.

He heard a moan escape him as he opened his eyes. He could feel his heart hammering against his chest wall, sending thin filaments of electric shock into him.

Someone drew near, though he could not see through the shadows and grey mist that surrounded him. It was then that he realized something light and hollow covered his nose and mouth. An oxygen mask.

"Jim?" A hand on his shoulder, cool and comforting.

He knew the voice, the touch. Bones.

"You're in Sickbay."

A shiver tore through him, igniting more pain. No. Sickbay was bright and smelled of antiseptic. The ship would hum and vibrate beneath him, lulling him into a safe slumber the way a mother lulled her child. He couldn't feel his ship. He couldn't feel anything beyond the agony in his knee and the tearing in his lungs. He blinked again. His head hurt, but it was an annoyance among the pains in his body.

"Bones?" His throat hurt. The word came out faint and garbled. He barely heard the sound of his own voice, his ears filled with the sudden rush of blood and the frantic pounding of his heart. He swallowed past the rawness, but it did not help.

"I'm right here, Jim."

The hand on his shoulder tightened reassuringly. Where? He blinked, trying to clear his vision. It was so difficult to breathe.

"You're all right. I know you're hurting. Try not to move."

He couldn't move. His body was pinned to the soft cushion beneath him, immobilized and aching like an insect set out for dissection. "Can't see."

"I know." The cool hand moved from his shoulder to press to his chest. It anchored him in the darkness. "I'm going to take a look in your eyes."

A small light shot into his eyes, sending a white hot needle into his skull. He closed his eyes and raised a hand to fend off the light, turning away from it with a moan. A hand gently grasped his chin just below the soft mask that covered his nose and mouth.

"Hold still, Jim."

Everything had returned to shadows and darkness. His head pounded and he kept his eyes shut to stave off the pain that was quickly receding.

"Sorry. I need to test the reaction of your pupils. It'll only take a second." McCoy's hand left his chin and was repositioned on his face. A thumb pulled back one lid, forcing his eye open as the light found its mark again. He moved against the hand, but it held him steady. The light left for a brief moment only to reappear in the other eye.

"Okay. I'm done." Bones' hand lingered a moment on the side of his face before retreating. "Rest your eyes."

As quickly as the pain had begun, it had ended. He rested his eyes for a moment before opening them again. Dark shadows floated around him. Somewhere in front of him was Bones, although he could only see a charcoal figure that blended too easily into the washed soot-colored background.

"Where are you?" he asked, straining to focus past the murkiness. The effort to speak made him breathless and dizzy.

"Right in front of you." A hand touched his arm, lightly clasping. "Can you see me at all?"

He knew where Bones was from the sound of his voice, but he couldn't see enough to be sure. "Shadows."

The hair on the back of his neck raised and he had the overwhelming sensation that someone was watching him, someone other than Bones.

"Shadows are good. That's something. It's only temporary. You'll see more every day."

Temporary? The mask made talking difficult and he disliked the feel of it pressing against his face. It was suffocating him. He reached to take the mask off and instantly felt Bones' hand on his, gently pulling it away from the mask.

"You have to leave that on. You need the oxygen right now." Bones squeezed his hand. "Just rest."

Speaking took such an effort and he had to push the words through the mask to be heard. He wanted it off. He wanted to move, to be free. Everything was pressing him down on the bed, restraining, punishing.

"I know it's difficult to breathe right now. That's going to get better. Try to take short breaths. The mask is feeding you oxygen."

_He felt hands on him – hard, cruel, immovable._

He reached out and his hand made contact with something solid and alive. His fingers curled into the familiar fabric of Bones' tunic.

"What is it, Jim?" Bones asked, carefully pulling Jim's hand from his uniform.

"Someone's here." He could feel it, menacing and deliberate, someone watching…waiting.

"It's just me with you. You're in Isolation Room One_._ You're safe."

He shook his head. His heart pounded. No, he wasn't. No one on the ship was safe. An alarm sounded a frantic chime above him, but it seemed distant.

Someone was waiting—

"Jim, I need you to calm down."

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move, and my god, his knee felt like it was on fire. Something tugged near his right breast and he felt a sharp pinch and pressure deep within his chest. He frowned against the strange sensation, but didn't have the strength to investigate.

"Spock." The words came out as a moan deep in his throat. He had to free himself…get to the bridge.

He moved his right leg, as if to leverage himself. Immediately, a hand rested on his thigh, stilling his movements.

"Keep still, Jim."

He didn't want to lie still – blind and paralyzed. He shivered again. Something soft and light covered his chest and shoulders, but it only served to weigh him down. Another thing to hold him in place…oppressive…binding.

"Rest." A hand softly touched his hair.

He was so tired. There was something he had to do, something important, but before he could focus on a single thought, the darkness swallowed him and pulled him down.

* * *

McCoy kept his hand on Jim's right leg as he watched the monitor display with concern. Jim's temperature was still too high at 39.5 and his O2 sat remained below eighty-five percent. Even though the toxins had stopped their assault, Jim's body continued to struggle to flush them out and recover.

Spock entered the room silently and stood opposite McCoy, near Jim's injured leg. The doctor had drained some of the fluid out early this morning, hoping it would provide some relief. The knee was swollen twice its normal size, most of it from the trauma it had sustained, the rest from the toxins that were destroying the cells.

McCoy studied the monitor, noting Jim's urine output was below normal levels. That meant his kidneys were shutting down and not filtering the toxins from his blood as they were designed to do, something Jim could not afford at the moment. He was counting on Jim's body to assist in the process. These small delays were causing imbalances throughout Jim's system.

"Has he been conscious?" Spock asked.

McCoy could see him in his peripheral vision – lean and straight, wearing an undecipherable expression as he stared at Jim's sleeping form. "Briefly."

"Did he say anything relevant? Anything regarding what happened?" McCoy frowned as he continued to study the monitor. He was weighing his options: give Jim's kidneys a few more hours to kick in and maybe increase the fluids to see if that didn't prompt them to function or go straight to dialysis. But dialysis left the kidneys not functioning. He pressed a call button on the side of the monitor panel.

"Doctor?"

He sighed and looked away from the panel. "He's in pain, Spock. He's confused and can't see. Our conversation focused on that."

"Any information he has is vital to the investigation. The sooner we have that information, the more quickly this matter can be resolved."

…_**this matter**_ _can be resolved_….The words angered him, as if Jim were an inconvenience, a political misstep that needed to be addressed and put to bed so that everything could resume normality. It was as if the man in the bed between them did not exist.

"I'm not going to interrogate him!" McCoy spat. "Finding whoever did this is not my priority."

"It must be my priority, Doctor."

"Listen to me, you—"

The door hissed open and Chapel entered, only to stop uncertainly just inside the room. She looked from Spock to McCoy with an expression of concern and confusion.

"Run a blood panel, Christine," he ordered her in a clipped tone. "I want a draw every two hours. And set up for a cellular scan. I want a closer look at his kidneys."

"Yes, Doctor," she said and turned immediately to comply.

He spared a glance at Spock. "I'm trying to keep this man alive."

He reached up to the IV regulator and tapped a command into the panel to increase the fluids. If this didn't work, he could try a diuretic to stimulate the kidneys.

Spock glanced at the monitor and then back to Jim. "Is there a concern?"

"I have a dozen concerns," McCoy said tersely, then paused and got control of his anger. Despite Spock's dispassionate tone and controlled demeanor, McCoy knew that the Vulcan cared for Jim. His head began to pound with the start of what promised to be a hell of a headache. "His kidneys are slowing down. His urine output is low and that means they aren't filtering the toxins out of his body."

Spock was quiet for a moment. In the stark lighting of Sickbay, McCoy could see the angled planes of his face, the deep set of his eyes and the facial muscles taut and controlled beneath the pale skin. To an untrained observer, he looked disciplined and impassive. But McCoy saw the way the Vulcan's eyes softened with concern, the slight hitch in his breathing and the faint pull of his black brows as they almost drew into a frown.

"Is this an effect of the toxins?" Spock asked.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

The dark eyes looked up at him. "You reported that the efficacy of the toxins had begun to diminish. Why is he still so…affected?"

McCoy's eyes rose. "I said they had stopped attacking his system. I didn't say the damage was undone. We can't reverse the effects. I can only hope the poison flushes from his system before it does permanent damage." He released a short breath and looked down at Jim. "And anyway, he's doing a hell of lot better than he was twenty-four hours ago."

"That is not readily apparent, Doctor."

He threw the Vulcan an impatient look. "Are we finished?"

"I do not wish to seem indifferent," Spock said slowly, "but everything the Captain says, however irrelevant it may seem, must be considered as potential vital evidence. My priority, Doctor, is to prevent another attack. He is most vulnerable at the moment."

McCoy scowled at that thought and looked down at Jim. He had not considered the possibility of another attack on the Captain. Jim's young features were pale and relaxed, free of the pain he'd seen earlier. But even as protected as they could make him, Jim was still vulnerable. Spock was right. The young captain could not see, could not move, and was weak and dependent on the medical machines for some of his basic functions. What if someone on the ship _did_ want to hurt him? What if their vigilance was not enough?

He looked at the Vulcan. "He thought someone was here and became agitated. That could be residual from the attack."

"Or he could be trying to tell us something."

McCoy's eyes hardened. "Christ, Spock, you're sounding paranoid. That's not going to help Jim."

"Neither will indulging in denial, Doctor. The danger, however chimerical you may feel about this, is real."

* * *

Jim awoke with a strange sense of peace and the feeling that someone waited on him, as if he had been interrupted in a task and now needed to finish. The thought floated away as the pressure in his chest drew his attention. He ran his tongue over his upper lip. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt too big for his mouth.

Slowly, he became more aware of deep ache in his knee, a dull pain that seemed to be just beneath the surface, like an angry snake waiting to strike. He recognized the heavy sensation of pain meds flowing through his veins, making him lethargic and fuzzyheaded.

He opened his eyes and blinked. He saw white, dingy and blurred, on his body. Beyond that were grey forms without shapes, indistinguishable and shifting. Beyond those dancing forms was… nothing.

_Shit._

This wasn't good. He closed his eyes. A deep throbbing had settled in just behind his temples. He felt his heart rate increase.

_Calm down, _he commanded_. _His training kicked in and he assessed his surroundings, using his other senses. He was on the ship, he knew. He could feel the steady hum and pulse of the engines, smell the familiar filtered air with a hint of disinfectant he knew only too well. _Sickbay._ From just above him, the soft beep and strum of the bio monitor confirmed his thoughts.

Okay, he'd been hurt somehow.

There was a shuffling sound and the air stirred. He opened his eyes again as one of the grey forms appeared near him.

"Do you see me?" Bones asked.

He shook his head weakly, wincing at the pain the motion caused. "What's wrong with my eyes?"

Silence.

"The toxins are affecting your occipital lobe." Bones' voice was thick with concern. "It'll clear up as the toxins are flushed from your system."

Toxins?

"What are you talking about, Bones? What toxins?" He felt a heavy pressure in his left knee.

"Jim, don't you remember waking up in Sickbay yesterday?"

He scowled. "No. What happened? How long have I been here?"

His knee was starting to throb painfully. He turned to look at it, but he could only see the watered grey mist. It felt heavy and lifeless except for the pain.

"What do you remember?" Bones asked, not answering his question.

He reached out to explore his knee, stretching his hand across his thigh. A hand captured his, stopping him.

"Your knee's been injured. It's still very sensitive."

"Feels strange." It hurt to talk. His throat was raw and achy. He rested back against the softness of the pillows, letting Bones place his hand back on his stomach.

"There's a lot of damage. I have it in an immobilizer to keep it from moving."

"My throat hurts."

There was a scrap and a metallic clink off to his right.

"Have a few sips of water," Bones said as a straw was pressed to his lips.

He drank greedily, feeling the cool water soothe his sore throat. Suddenly, the straw was withdrawn.

"That's enough for now."

Drinking made him a little breathless and dizzy. He took a few moments to catch his breath as his thoughts slid into place, fighting for attention over his aching body. The shadows in front of him were distracting. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling a strange comfort in the darkness.

"What do you remember, Jim?"

He ignored the pain in his knee as best as he could and searched his thoughts for his last known memory, but everything seemed jumbled and disjointed, like clips from several different stories all strewn together into a potpourri of mirages – illusive and displaced. "I'm not sure. I see things, but…everything is all muddled."

"Just take your time and tell me what you see." Bones' hand lightly grasped his right bicep. The hand was cool and strong. "Don't worry if it makes sense."

He opened his eyes. "I remember everything was too bright. It hurt my eyes. Somebody was holding me down…I think. I wanted to get away, but I couldn't move."

_Strong, cruel hands held him in place._

"That was yesterday, here in Sickbay," Bones said. "I checked the reaction of your pupils with a penlight. Your eyes were a little sensitive and your leg is immobile, so you can't move much. It may feel like you're being held down."

The pain in his knee increased, a sharp biting that bled out toward his thigh. "I was on an oxygen mask."

"Yes. The toxin is affecting your respiratory system, among other things. I had to put you on oxygen to keep your saturation levels high enough to not to affect your brain function. Even on full oxygen, you struggled."

"It's better?" There was a pressure in his chest that made breathing deeply difficult. He contented himself with shallow breaths.

"Yes, the toxin stopped its progression, but your body is slow in flushing it out. That's why it's difficult for you to see right now."

The throbbing in his knee increased to a maddening tempo. He shifted uncomfortably. "What the hell happened to my knee? It's killing me."

"You got shot with an arrow. That's how the toxin got into your system."

"Arrow?" Shit his knee hurt. He reached for it, instinctively wanting to rub away pain that radiated from it. Hands immediately captured his and gently, but firmly pulled him back. Another hand planted on his shoulder, reinforcing his position.

"Ah. It's not going to feel better touching it, Jim. Your knee took the brunt of the toxin, not to mention what the damn arrowhead did to your knee. Most of your cartilage is gone. That's why I immobilized it."

The throbbing elevated to a piercing. He frowned. "You didn't fix it?"

Bones let out a short breath. "I can't until the toxin is clear. It's destroying a lot of your cells in the knee and will most likely reject the new cartilage. Plus, there's too much swelling right now to do anything."

The hand on his shoulder squeezed lightly. He shivered, feeling a pinch near his chest.

"Are you cold?"

"Who the hell shot me with an arrow?" His head had begun to pound, creating a pulsating pain behind his eyes.

"That's what Spock has been trying to find out. Do you remember going down to the planet?"

Of course he remembered the planet. It was a secondary exploration for the Federation. The planet had already been surveyed and classified years ago. The first contact team had made their evaluation. Someone on the team had ingeniously named the planet Aegis, presumably because the planet's medicinal capabilities. The _Enterprise's_ job was to gather samples for Starfleet Medical and Science and reassess the possibilities of a Federation post. Science aside, the planet was located in a strategic corridor between the Klingon Empire and the Federation. And then it all came together. "That planet is classified as Uninhabited."

"Yes."

He shivered again and felt sweat run down his neck. He tried to shift his position to find a more comfortable position, but the movement jarred his knee, sending a piercing agony into it. He cried out from the sheer intensity. The pain drove him to lurch up in bed. A sharp pull on his right breast was all but lost in the wave of pain emanating from his knee. Out of instinct, he reached for his knee, feeling the world tip and spin around him.

Alarms wailed above the sound of Bones' cursing.

"Damn it, Jim."

Arms caught hold of his shoulders and easily pushed him down into the softness of the mattress. He struggled to breath, suddenly overwhelmed with dizziness and pain. Trembles shook his body that suddenly seemed hypersensitive and raw.

_A flash of white…hands held him down…._

"Get me 15cc's of Noraphine. Jim, I need your to lie still."

_What have we done?_

Above him, shadows moved. There was a click and hiss of a hypospray. He felt a warm pressure in his chest as his knee screamed in agony. He braced himself with his right leg, trying to get away from the pain, but his movement only caused more pain.

"Kill those alarms," Bones said, his tone clipped. His hand grasped onto Jim's thigh right above the knee on his uninjured leg and held him firmly in place. "I need you lie still, Jim."

No, he had to move.

Another set of hands, small and soft, rested on his left side at his ribcage and just below his hip, lying flat against his thigh. He lashed out at the hands, knocking them away, but his body wasn't cooperating and the hands held firm.

They weren't supposed to be here.

Exhaustion suddenly weighed him. His body felt heavy and he recognized the effects of strong pain meds pulling him down. _Wait…stop._ "Bones…."

He reached out into the shadowy grayness, his arm trembling with exertion. There was something there in the shadows, just outside of his internal vision, pressed close to the walls of his mind…someone waiting….

"It's all right, Jim." A cool hand caught his. "Just relax and the let the medication work."

The pain began to recede as the shadows melted into blackness. A shiver tore through him. He made a strange noise at the back of his throat. He tried to move, to keep his eyes open. He felt his body convulse with the effort then fall back into the bed, limp and useless.

"Hey, easy." Bones' voice was close to his right ear, gentle and commanding. "Don't fight it so much."

His eyes pulled shut. He fought to breathe, fought the darkness he was sinking into and the heavy liquid running through his veins that made his body ineffective. "No."

A hand pressed to his fevered forehead. "You're safe. You can let go now. Just let go."

It was the last thing he heard.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Spock sat straight-backed in the chair next to Jim's bed, watching the human's restless sleep. He was alone in the isolation room, but knew that either Doctor McCoy or a nurse would return shortly. Jim was not left alone for very long and it was these moments of solitude, where he could sit unobserved, that Spock savored the most. His mother would do this when he was sick as a boy. He wondered now if his presence comforted his friend the way his mother's presence had once comforted him.

He suspected McCoy thought him illogical in this very un-Vulcan behavior of keeping a vigil.

"_You know, he won't be awake for hours," McCoy warned, making notes on the thin PADD in his hands. "It's better for him if he sleeps."_

"_I will not disturb him."_

_McCoy scowled deeply. "I don't need my staff tripping over you while trying to treat Jim."_

"_I shall not be in the way."_

_They stared at one another for a long moment, the hazel eyes unusually dark. McCoy's lips drew into a thin line and he let out a quick breath before turning away abruptly to busy himself with the IV regulator._

That had been three hours ago and Spock had not moved except to give the nurses access to Jim as they drew blood, monitored his vitals and inspected various catheter sites. During those moments, Spock discreetly kept his gaze averted, knowing how much his friend hated being vulnerable and dependent. It was his small gesture to offer the man in the bed a modicum of privacy that the very nature of medicine rebuffed. Still, there was little in the way of concealment for the young captain. The medical staff had been caring for Jim's body for days and, despite all precautions, Spock had observed the details of that care.

A low moan drew his attention. A soft blanket covered Jim to just below his ribs, leaving his chest bare and exposed. The IV catheter was taped in place to pale skin that was slick with sweat. McCoy had been trying to reduce the fever that ravaged Jim, but had made minimal progress.

"_It's his body's way of fighting off the toxin," McCoy said. "But it's taking a hell of toll."_

_They both stood at the foot of the bed, studying the unconscious, restless form._

"_He's not responding very well to the antipyretic, but I hadn't expected him to."_

"_Is there a danger?"_

"_There's always a danger with fever."_

He studied the colorless face with brows wrinkled in distress. Even unconscious, Jim was not completely free of pain. Spock looked at the injured knee, which was elevated in an immobilizer. The exposed knee was discolored various shades of purple and blue and swollen to a misshapen form that barely resembled its normal anatomy. The cells and muscles around the injury were slowly dying, the toxin clinging to the entry wound like hungry predators on a stout carcass. He could see the ugly, red incision McCoy had made extracting the arrow. Butterfly stitches held the wound closed, but the swelling stretched the temporary sutures and a thin line of blood stained the straight cut.

A faint beep sounded from the monitor.

He looked up at the display that revealed a myriad of information, most of which he was not trained to interpret. He knew that McCoy had been closely monitoring the Captain's fluctuating vitals, concerned with oxygen saturation and blood pressure, both of which were low. But that was not why the alarm activated. A warning light flashed in orange above the blood chemistry display.

The doors to the room hissed open as McCoy and Nurse Chapel entered hastily. Spock quickly rose from his seat and moved aside as McCoy and Chapel leaned over the bed.

"His urine output is in normal range," Chapel said and checked the small container that collected Jim's urine tucked discreetly at the side of the bed.

McCoy studied the panel with a grim expression. "It's not his kidneys."

Spock stood silently, watching intently as Jim's eyes fluttered.

"Damn it," McCoy said under his breath as he silenced the alarm. He turned his attention to Jim's injured knee. "Set up for an I & D, Chris. And give him another 25 cc's of Pharacin."

"Yes, Doctor," she said and exited the room.

Jim's eyes opened; the brilliant blue irises had not been dulled by his temporary blindness. He rolled his head along the pillow. "Bones?"

"I'm right here, Jim," he said, placing a hand on Jim's bare shoulder. "I want you to lie still. Don't try to move your leg. Do you understand? I know it hurts, but moving it will only cause more pain."

"Feels hot," Jim said weakly.

"I know. There's a lot of fluid building up in your knee. I'm going to do something about that, but right now I need you to lie still."

Spock noted the way Jim relaxed slightly at the sound of McCoy's voice, as if the man in the bed instinctively knew that the doctor would take care of everything for him. Perhaps that was the trust that came with friendship, that unquestionable loyalty that defied all logic. Watching the two men interact with such ease and comfort, he couldn't help but wonder: Would he and Jim ever share that?

"I'm thirsty." Jim blinked and looked around the room, his eyes blank and unseeing.

"I can't give you anything to drink," McCoy said. "I'll give you an H-Strip. You can let it dissolve on your tongue. That will cool your throat."

Jim frowned. "They taste like crap."

"I know. Best I can do right now."

Jim ran his tongue over his lips. A confused expression settled on his face. "Did I go somewhere?"

"No," McCoy said, gently patting Jim's arm. "You've been right here in Sickbay."

"Where's Spock?"

"He's here."

Spock took a step, but halted when McCoy looked at him, scowling then shaking his head before speaking again to Jim.

"I'll get him. Just keep still." McCoy walked around to the other side of the bed and stood next to Spock and spoke in a tone only he could hear. "The toxin is building up in his bloodstream faster than his kidneys can flush it. I'm going to have to insert a tube into his knee and try to drain out some of the fluid and poison." He paused and glanced at Jim. "I can't give him much more for his pain. Talk to him. This will be easier on him if you can distract him."

It was unlikely he would be able to distract Jim from the intensity of pain that was coming, and McCoy knew it. The request wasn't really about distracting Jim; it was about offering him comfort. In the same way that McCoy's gentle hand on Jim assuaged some measure of pain, so the doctor thought that Spock's voice would provide reassurance. And that gave the Vulcan pause. There had been one other time that he had been pressed to console when his friend needed him the most-when Jim lay dying from radiation. Jim Kirk had never asked him for anything, but that time he had reached out, seeking solace and reassurance from Spock.

When it mattered the most, Spock had failed.

The Vulcan inclined his head respectfully. "Of course, Doctor."

They moved to the bed, Spock positioned at Jim's right side, while McCoy took his place by the injured knee. The door hissed open again, admitting Chapel, who carried a tray lined with medical equipment.

"Spock?" Jim asked. His voice was raspy and weak, his eyes open and unseeing, but the expression on his pale face was composed and coherent.

"Here, Captain." He pulled a chair close to the bed and sat, leaning toward Kirk. He had been anxiously waiting for the Captain to regain consciousness. His investigation into the incident on the planet had not yielded any positive results. He knew no more now than he did days earlier. As a precaution, he kept a guard at the Captain's door, having not been presented without enough evidence to exonerate the landing party.

Chapel set up the tray near the end of the bed.

"Jim, I'm going to run a sterile field on your knee. You shouldn't feel anything," McCoy said and activated the field.

"Mm," Jim murmured in response, then turned toward Spock. "Things are a little fuzzy. Bones said I was shot with an arrow."

"Yes, while you were on the planet."

"The planet's uninhabited. Did we have visitors?"

"Our scanners detected nothing; nor did a search party find any evidence of incursion." He noted Jim's quickening respiration as McCoy continued to prepare the injured knee.

"What about the rest of my landing party? No one saw anything?"

"They did not. You were separated from the landing party when you were injured. No one noticed your disappearance until your biosensor alarm sounded. We executed an emergency beam out."

Jim frowned. "I don't remember anything about that."

"You were unconscious when you materialized."

McCoy leaned toward the head of the bed. "Jim, I need to talk to you."

Jim turned his head toward the sound of McCoy's voice. His breathing was slightly labored.

"There's a lot of fluid build-up in your knee, most of it from the toxin that hasn't flushed out of your system yet. For some reason it's lingering in your knee at the point of entry. I have to clear this toxin out of your bloodstream and your knee so I can repair the damage. I'm going to insert a drainage tube and remove as much of the fluid as I can." He paused, staring intently at Jim. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes."

"Jim…this is going to be unpleasant. You're going to feel discomfort. I can't give you any more pain meds."

Jim frowned again. "Do what you have to."

McCoy glanced at Spock, his expression tight. He turned his attention to Jim. "I'll walk you through the process. I'm going to activate a stasis field around your leg to keep it from moving, but I need you to lie still during this procedure. Any movement in the field jars your injured leg and that will cause more pain. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Don't move. I got it, Bones." The irritation in Kirk's voice was plain enough. Whether it was from McCoy's overly detailed synopsis or his pain, Spock could not be certain.

McCoy scowled and straightened. "I'm going to activate the stasis field. You might feel some pressure."

A soft hum filled the air as the stasis field activated. If Jim felt anything, he did not show it. Spock remained sitting stiffly in the chair. He realized he was holding his breath and his hands were tightly clasped. He made an effort to release the tension and relax, focusing on Jim who appeared strangely undisturbed.

"I remember talking to you," Jim said weakly to Spock. His right hand moved up to rest on his ribs. "I don't remember where I was."

"You were in Sickbay. I questioned you when you first regained consciousness. Do you remember what you said?"

Jim began to shake his head, but paused in deep concentration, as if trying to focus on a thought.

McCoy intervened. "Jim, I'm going to give you a localized anesthetic. I'll be as careful as I can."

"A guard was there," Jim said. He sucked in a breath sharply as McCoy injected his knee with a hypo.

"The landing party consisted of two guards," Spock said, trying to draw Jim's attention away from McCoy's ministrations. "Was it one of your guards you saw?"

"No," Jim said tightly. His teeth bit into his bottom lip and he pressed his head into the pillow.

Spock's gaze moved from Jim to McCoy who repositioned his hypo to inject another area of the swollen knee. The doctor's hands were steady and sure, moving with precision and skill. Spock returned his focus to Jim. The human had become even more pale and his eyes were unnaturally bright.

"Don't hold your breath, Jim," McCoy said, pausing to scan the monitor. He held out his hand to Chapel before returning his attention to Jim's knee. "Pen laser."

"You separated from the group," Spock prompted, trying to solicit more information and keep Jim's attention on the conversation and away from what McCoy was doing. "Do you remember that, Captain?"

"Someone was waiting for me." His words were thin and strained.

McCoy spoke. "I'm going to insert the tube now, Jim."

Spock remained focused on Jim, though peripherally he could see the details of what McCoy was doing. "Who was waiting for you, Captain? Can you see them in your mind?"

Beads of sweat gathered on the pale forehead. Jim's breath quickened as his fingers twisted into the soft blanket that covered him. He opened his mouth to speak, but a short cry escaped instead. He shut his eyes tightly as his body tensed.

"Sorry, Jim," McCoy said. "The tube is in now. Chris, give me a number five suture."

Spock waited until Jim relaxed again and slowly opened his eyes. He looked exhausted. "You still here, Spock?"

"Yes, Captain. I am here."

"What happened to the rest of the landing party?"

"They were unharmed."

"They didn't…see anything?" Jim's voice had become more forced.

"No, Captain. Who was waiting for you?"

"They were."

They? More than one.

McCoy stepped back, holding his gloved hands away from his body and leaning slightly in to speak to Jim. "Jim, I'm going to insert another drainage tube lower in your knee near your tibia. I want to try and get as much of this toxin out as I can. I'll be quick."

"Terrific," Kirk said breathlessly.

Spock watched McCoy return to the task with a grim expression.

"Chris, pen laser," McCoy said.

"Only I was hurt?" Jim asked, his face tight with pain.

"Yes, Captain. Only you."

"Why?"

"That is what I am endeavoring to discover. Anything you can remember will be of benefit. Why you separated from the landing party. What you saw."

"I saw –" His words were cut off by a sharp cry as his body was galvanized by pain.

"I know," McCoy said soothingly. "I'm almost done." He looked up at the monitor for a moment, his fingers pressing a narrow tube into the tiny incision he'd just made. "Don't hold your breath, Jim."

Spock watched as Jim's body trembled, fingers twisted tightly into the blanket until his knuckles whitened. Rivulets of perspiration rolled down his face and chest. His entire body was frozen as the pain in his knee ripped through him. Spock leaned closer, focused on Jim's hand that clung to the blanket.

"What did you see, Captain?" His voice was not quite steady.

An alarm sounded loudly.

"Jim! Breathe!" McCoy's voice was commanding as he stared at the monitor.

But Jim didn't breathe. His lungs locked. Every muscle in his body was pulled taut. A thin blue vein popped at his temple, stark against the white skin.

"Jim! Christine, get up there!"

Chapel moved quickly, grabbing an oxygen mask from a panel in the wall near the head of the bed. She fitted it neatly over Jim's nose and mouth, holding it in place. "Breathe deeply, Captain."

The alarm continued to sound, filling the room.

"Captain," Chapel said desperately. "Take a breath."

Jim's grip on the blanket was desperate and quarantined. He seemed alone and uncomforted in his suffering. Spock reached out to press his hand to Jim's—

McCoy's bloody gloved hand moved with lightning speed, curling into a fist and coming down on Jim's sternum with a sharp thud. Jim's eyes flew open as he drew a staggered breath within the mask. Spock's hand retreated with uncertainty, drawing a revealing look from McCoy.

"Keep breathing, Captain," Chapel instructed, holding the mask firmly in place and soothing his damp hair with her free hand.

As oxygen flooded into his body, his eyes began to pull shut with exhaustion. He lay supine and motionless, except for a shiver Spock detected that seemed to run the length of his body.

"Spock…."

"I am here, Captain."

"Spock."

McCoy snapped off his gloves and tossed them on the medical tray before moving to take Chapel's place near the head of the bed. He put a hand on the mask and leaned closely toward Jim. "I said no holding your breath," he scolded softly.

Jim's eyes closed for a few deliberate breaths before opening again. McCoy kept silent and watched as Jim struggled to keep his eyes open. His lips moved silently beneath the mask.

"Just breathe, Jim," McCoy said, wiping away the perspiration that had gathered on his forehead. The doctor's eyes rose to meet Spock's stoic gaze. The human's expression was curious and amused and Spock felt as if every Vulcan discipline had been stripped of him.

Jim uncurled his fingers from the blanket to reach out and weakly grasped McCoy's sleeve.

"I know," McCoy said gently, returning his attention to his patient. "Don't try so hard. That's it. Let the mask help you."

Jim's eyes shut and his lips stilled as exhaustion overtook him. Spock waited a moment until he was certain Jim was unconscious and breathing steadily, then he rose, drawing a curious glance from McCoy. But he said nothing, merely inclining his head before turning to leave. He did not want to engage in conversation with the doctor. His mind was racing. He had seen the words on Jim Kirk's lips, the words he silently repeated as unconsciousness claimed him: _They were waiting for me._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

It was ten hours before McCoy could remove the drainage tubes and flush Jim's knee. During that time, Jim slept fitfully with fever and pain, never fully conscious or mindful of the ministrations being performed on him. Occasionally, he would wake in his darkness and call out weakly, quickly pacified by a gentle touch or soft word of comfort.

Though he continued to have difficulty breathing and maintaining acceptable oxygen saturation levels, McCoy decided to increase his pain meds enough to keep him comfortable during the invasive processes. It was a juggling act for the medical staff to maintain the balance between his comfort and his medical needs.

At the end of the final procedure, the swelling in Jim's knee had been significantly reduced and the toxicology showed enough of an improvement for McCoy to risk repairing the damaged tendons and cartilage. The tibialis anterior muscle had been significantly damaged, and he was forced to graph a new one in place. With strong doses of stem-cell regens, the regenerated muscle had been accepted by Jim's body and had begun to vascularize.

McCoy kept him heavily sedated and on full oxygen for twenty hours, allowing the knee to heal from the surgery. But true to form, Jim didn't stay down very long. After a mere twelve hours, the young captain began fighting the sedation. It took McCoy and two nurses working full time to coax Jim under again, until finally McCoy decided to reduce the dose and allow him to regain consciousness.

"His fighting is just causing more stress," McCoy told Chapel. "We don't need to battle high blood-pressure **and **ulcers **and** the effects of the toxin."

"Pick your battles," she said tongue-and-cheek.

"With Jim that's not always possible."

"I'm surprised he's conscious at all," she said, staring at the restless form on the bed. "After everything he's been through I would think he'd be out for a week."

"You'll quickly find that Jim's not your typical patient." He glanced down at the pale, fevered man. "He's a hard man to keep down."

It was hours before Jim finally opened his eyes, only to announce, with bitter resentment, that the room was still shrouded in featureless fog. This knowledge settled heavily on him, and he became unusually withdrawn and contemplative – a deadly combination in the young man.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" McCoy asked. He stood near Jim's right hip with his hand outstretched toward the bed, watching Jim's response with a keen, clinical eye. It had been more than a day since Jim's surgery, and in that time he had remained sullen and quiet, barely tolerating the medical staff's care. His response to their questions had been with one syllable words. On one occasion he had refused to answer until McCoy entered the room and demanded a proper response.

"_Stop harassing my staff, Jim."_

"_I don't need a damn nursemaid," he said irritably. He was in pain and the fever was causing a deep ache throughout his body, adding chills and sweating to his misery. Despite his silence, he was restless due to the pain, trying in vain to find a comfortable position._

"_They're not nursemaids; they're nurses. And until you can walk out of this room on your own, you need their help."_

Inclined at a slight angle to ease his breathing, Jim stared in McCoy's general direction. His eyes were open and a startling blue under the diffused lights. Even his blindness had not taken away from their electric intensity.

"Don't strain so much, Jim," McCoy said gently, seeing the vein pulse near his patient's temple. He glanced at the monitor and confirmed the increase in blood pressure. "If you can't see it, that's all right."

A soft growl escaped Jim before he closed his eyes and pressed his knuckles to his temples to ease the ache. "I thought you said it would clear up. Why can't I see?"

McCoy dropped his hand. "I said it was temporary. You can see the difference between light and dark now. And you can discern figures. That's an improvement."

Jim's brows drew into a heavy line. "How much longer?"

He looked at his patient with empathy. He'd lost count of how many times a patient asked him a question he could not answer._ How long do I have to live? Will I be able to walk after the surgery? What if we wait? _Patients expected doctors to have answers. Jim was no different.

"Jim, I don't know. This isn't an exact science. It's taking longer than I anticipated, but there's no permanent damage. The brain doesn't heal like other organs. Even with most of the toxin out of your system, the area of your brain that controls vision has been affected. We just have to give your neurons time to reconnect."

"I don't have time," he said impatiently and dropped his hand with a thud onto the bed. "I need to get out of here."

McCoy snorted and made a note on Jim's chart. "You're running a temperature of 39.5 and I just reconstructed your knee. You're not going anywhere for a while."

"I can rest in my quarters."

McCoy looked at him, nonplussed. The central line and the various IV fluids dripping into his veins was a stark reminder of how truly sick he was. He'd lost weight in the past few days and his face appeared gaunt from the constant pain and stress. Add to that, his fever was draining his reserves and no doubt muddling his thinking. "It's not about resting, Jim. You're still on IV fluids and you're barely maintaining your O2 sats. I need to monitor you, and you need care."

"I hate the sound of that word," he said, closing his eyes with a scowl. "It's hot in here."

"It's your fever." McCoy finished making his notes and moved toward the other side of the bed to examine the injured knee. "I'll get you a cool cloth in a minute."

"I want to talk to Spock." It wasn't a request.

"After I finish my exam." McCoy set the chart down and focused on the knee.

"Now!"

McCoy scowled and glared at Jim, feeling his temper rise. A biting remark teetered on the tip of his tongue. Jim was a difficult patient under the best of circumstances, but McCoy had come to understand Jim's self-determining nature that saw needing help as a sign of weakness. They had done this dance before, these small power plays where each man tried to assert his position and gain control. But it wasn't about power for McCoy. Jim Kirk didn't understand his own limits, and it was McCoy's responsibility as CMO to draw the boundaries…and, when necessary, enforce them.

"I'm not your yeoman to do your bidding, and you don't outrank me in this room," he said sternly. "I'm your doctor and you're my patient. My primary concern is your health."

"And my primary concern is this ship," Jim fired back. "Damn it, Bones. I need to talk to Spock."

"You're also injured and not on active duty." He paused and took a breath. He quickly scanned the monitor, noting the elevated vitals and slight dip in the O2 sat. "I'll get Spock after I finish examining you." He drew the blanket back from the elevated knee. "Spock's not going anywhere…and neither are you."

Jim dropped his head back against the pillow and rolled his head away from McCoy, pushing down on the blanket that covered him. Slightly breathless and flushed, his irritation was tangible.

McCoy took a moment to evaluate his patient. Still startlingly pale despite his fever, the exhaustion that consumed him was evident in the labored breathing and the heavy, boneless way he lay on the bed. Still, he looked like he wanted to hit something or someone. At that moment, McCoy wanted nothing more than to comfort his friend, to remind the young man that there were capable people to look after the ship, and he had to take care of himself now. He wanted to lay a comforting hand on the fevered skin and tell him everything was going to be all right, they'd figure out who had shot him, and it would end up a story they tell over drinks one night. But that was something one friend would say to another, and he was not Jim's friend at the moment. He was Jim's doctor.

With a sigh, he turned his attention to Jim's knee. Despite the trauma and recent surgery, the knee looked surprisingly good. The swelling had been reduced considerably and the incisions had begun to heal in thin, pink lines. He pressed his fingers gently at the base of the knee, checking the newly implanted tendons, feeling for tension or swelling. His probing elicited a grunt from Jim.

"I'm going to flex your knee and check your range of motion. Just relax your leg as much as you can. Let me do the work." He carefully bent the injured knee a few degrees, keeping his fingers pressed close to the quadriceps muscle as he manipulated the joint. The leg convulsed beneath his hands and he stilled his probing.

"Does that hurt?" he asked, studying Jim's tightly pressed lips.

"Yes, it hurts!" Jim ground out.

"Okay, settle down." He kept a hand in place to stabilize the leg as he continued his exam, his sensitive fingers feeling the reaction of the flesh beneath him. When he finished, he lowered Jim's leg and settled it onto the cushion that kept it elevated. He reached for a small scanner and took a quick reading. "The new tendons and muscle have accepted well. You'll need to build up strength, but it looks good. Now, if we can just get your fever down."

"Why didn't you just scan it to begin with?" Jim asked in an irritated tone.

"The scanner can't tell me everything that my hands can." He pulled the blanket to cover Jim's knee and checked the monitor again before retrieving the cool cloth he had prepared. "I'm going to use a cloth to try to lower your body temperature. It should help to alleviate some of the fever symptoms. I'll start at your shoulders."

Despite his alert, he felt Jim jump at the first touch of the cloth. The material was synthetic and designed to hold temperature. It had been saturated with alcohol that would help to cool the fevered skin. Jim was naked beneath the Sickbay blanket. The sheet covering the biobed's pad absorbed perspiration and body fluids, drawing them away from the patient to maximize comfort. The temperature of the bed had been lowered, offering an additional cooling element that Jim appeared not to notice.

McCoy wiped the cloth over Jim's arm, allowing the alcohol to evaporate on his skin. The idea was not to cleanse, but to offer some comfort. He soothed the cloth across Jim's bare chest, careful of the catheter site that had become red with irritation, a common complaint. Jim winced as he wiped the cloth over his torso.

"Did I hurt you?" McCoy asked.

"No." But he was frowning. "When can I get that out?"

Central lines were uncomfortable and patients typically didn't tolerate them for long. "Today. We'll move the site to your arm. You still need IV medications and fluids."

He lowered the blanket to just above Jim's pubic bone, exposing the narrow waist and flat belly. Jim shivered as the cloth drew across his lower abdomen, then he shifted restlessly.

"Are you in pain?" McCoy asked, studying the tense features.

Jim shook his head curtly, but the tension remained.

McCoy scanned the monitor. Nothing alarming there, but Jim seemed uncomfortable and hesitant. He looked at the pale face. Jim was a master at hiding his pain, even from the sophisticated monitors. "If you're uncomfortable, let me know. You shouldn't be having any pain in your abdomen."

"I'm not in pain," he said shortly.

"Well, something's wrong. You're strung tighter than wire." He waited, but when there was no reply, he asked, "Do you want give me a hint?"

Jim scowled. His blue eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling. "Something doesn't feel right."

"Okay," McCoy said slowly. His stomach tightened. "Where doesn't it feel right?"

"In my penis. It feels likes there's pressure."

He released the breath he'd been unconsciously holding, letting the tension drain suddenly from his body. No emergency. "You have a urinary catheter in. Let me take a look."

He drew the rest of the blanket back and examined where the narrow tube entered Jim's urethra. "There's no sign of infection or swelling." His fingers moved to examine the testis for distension. "Everything looks good. Is it uncomfortable?"

"Of course it's uncomfortable; there's a tube up my dick."

"All right," McCoy said easily and pulled the blanket up again. Moving to the side of the room, he disinfected his hands. "It's been in for a few days. I'll remove it later and reset a new one. It could be just irritation."

"How about we remove it altogether."

He looked at Jim and the uncompromising expression on the flushed face. "Sorry. You can't get out of bed yet and we need to keep monitoring your urine output. It'll only be a few more days. Once you get your mobility back, you won't need it."

Jim released a short breath and threw his left arm over his eyes. "Are we done?"

He wasn't done, but Jim's stress indicators were rising and that would trigger a decrease in respiratory function. As it was, his oxygen saturation levels were still slightly below normal. He wanted Jim to rest and stay calm, something that wouldn't happen if he continued pressing. "Yeah, Jim, we're done for now."

"Then get me Spock."

* * *

He waited until he heard the sound of Bones' steps fade and the doors hiss shut before allowing himself to relax. He dropped his arm and stared at nothing. Although his vision had improved, he was still unable to distinguish forms. Person or piece of equipment—he couldn't tell one from the other. The only thing that told him Bones was there was the doctor's familiar scent. Bones smelled of sandalwood and strong soap. Jim hadn't noticed it before, but the scent put him at ease, which was strange, because Bones wasn't exactly the type of man who put anybody at ease.

He pushed the blanket down, feeling the heat rising in his skin. Bones' impromptu bathing had helped, but he hated all the care and attention as much as he hated his own helplessness. His knee had felt pleasantly numb until Bones had manhandled it. The manipulation activated the pain, setting in a deep ache that stretched from mid-thigh to his ankle. The new muscle Bones had graphed in place was hyper-responsive with new nerves firing off what felt like electric shocks. Bones had promised him the new muscle would settle down as soon as the stem-cell regens had a chance to take effect.

It's what he hated the most about medicine, the wait-and-see methodology. As advanced as modern medicine had become, there still was no cure for the common fever. He wiped at the perspiration on his forehead. He would give anything for a real shower.

The ache behind his eyes had steadily grown stronger since waking and he closed his eyes to rest them. It was less stressful to see nothing than to strain to decipher shapes. He made a conscious effort to relax his body, letting the softness of the mattress take his weight. The small reprieve helped him to focus and settle his thoughts. He needed to have his mind clear to speak to Spock.

The door finally hissed and he immediately opened his eyes, seeing a tall shadow approach the bed.

"Captain," Spock said and came to stand on Jim's right side. "It is good to see you alert and more rested. Doctor McCoy informs me that your reconstructive surgery was successful. You are feeling less discomfort?"

"I'm fine. Take a seat." He had come to know that Vulcans were terrible at small talk, and anyway, he did not want to talk about himself. He had other things he needed to discuss.

Spock sat in the chair without making a sound. He was the only person Jim knew who could move as silently as a cat. He'd seen the Vulcan remain in one place for three hours, never so much as shifting his weight or uttering a sound. He even breathed silently.

"Status report."

"We are no further in our investigation than we were five days ago," Spock said.

He had expected as much. Spock would have questioned the landing party extensively. If they'd had any information that would be helpful to the investigation, Spock would have skillfully extricated it from them. One thing about the First Officer, he was meticulous and thorough in his processes. Jim knew that the crew would not be of help.

"Tell me everything you know about Aegis."

"Class M. First explored by the _USS Constitution _over four years ago as part of the Federation expansion initiative. It was categorized as uninhabited with a well-established system of multi-organisms. Early stage evolution of organisms with evidence of genetic drift. A typical terrestrial ecosystem of—"

"What about anthropological studies?"

Silence. His knee throbbed, but he ignored the pain, keeping himself still with the appearance of being relaxed and at ease. He remained focused on Spock, putting on his best command expression.

"The planet has not developed to the stage of sentient beings," Spock finally said. "There is no evidence to suggest the planet was ever inhabited by intelligent life."

"No archeological finds?"

"The _Constitution _reported none."

Standard exploration procedures-before even stepping foot on the planet, the First Contact team would have run a series of scans to detect any indications of life forms. If none were found, they would have done a planetwide scan to search for any unnatural structures that might indicate past or current habitation by intelligent beings. But something told Jim that the crew had been looking in the wrong spot.

"Did you run a scan?" he asked Spock.

"Yes, Captain. A standard Class Two scan per protocol after you were injured."

"A Class Two scan isn't going to detect anything more than six meters beneath the surface. I want a detailed Class One scan in a thirty-two hundred meter radius from where you found me."

For a moment, there was only the sound of the monitor softly thrumming in cadence with his vitals. The dark shadow that was Spock did not move. Jim waited, feeling a heavy weight settle on his chest. His eyes hurt and the ache that always seemed to reside behind them had grown into a stabbing pain.

"May I ask what we are looking for, Captain?"

A flash of white light blinded him, igniting an intense pain in his eyes. A grunt escaped him as he pressed his hands to his temples in a vain attempt to ease the pain.

"Captain, are you all right?"

He shut his eyes tightly, forcing the darkness. _What the hell?_ His head felt like it was going to explode. His heart hammered frantically against his ribs as a sudden wave of heat overtook him.

_The light blinded him. It had appeared so unexpectedly that he had not had time to shield his eyes. In an instant, he was moving…and yet he was not. Something pulled at the center of him, deep in his solar plexus. For a moment, it was as if he didn't exist, as if everything within him had just… stopped._

"What the hell happened?" It was Bones' voice, distant and frantic. "Tri-ox, now!"

He felt the bed being lowered so that he was lying flat. His body was limp, as if all his muscles had separated from the bones. There was a sense of motion around him, but it had very little to do with him. The sting of a hypo against his neck was barely felt, his flesh like clay. Hands touched him….

_At first cruel and demanding, they held without apology, then softened to comfort and soothe. He could only see the white light stretched across the canvas of his mind._

"_What have we done?"_

Oxygen flooded into him. He felt the mask on his face, pressing close. It hurt to breathe, as if someone were forcing down his chest, crushing his lungs. Slowly, he became aware of his body and the pain radiating from his knee.

"I told you to keep him calm, Spock." Bones' voice was cutting. "His breathing is stressed enough."

The cold press of a hypo against his neck drew his attention. A cool hand rested on his shoulder. He opened his eyes. The world before him was cast in grey shadows and faint blotches of light that looked like a poorly painted water color. The medication infused into his veins and he felt the pain recede as a heaviness overtook him.

"Spock." His voice was weak and muffled by the mask.

"Here, Captain."

"Someone…." So much effort to draw air into his lungs.

Another hand on his forehead, soothing.

"Don't try to talk, Jim," McCoy said. "You should go, Spock."

**No!** He reached out into the darkness toward the sound of Spock's voice. His hand made contact with the soft fabric of a uniform. He twisted his fingers into the fabric as a hotter than human hand covered his. The medication was pulling him down. His fingers weakened.

"Rest, Captain."

With his fingers still twisted into the fabric, he drew it toward him with the last remaining strength. "Someone was…waiting for me."

His fingers slipped. The weight of his hand was too much to support. It would have fallen to the bed if not for the hand that still held it. As he fell into the blackness of blissful sleep, he felt the hand squeeze his own.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The planet's terrain was lush with vegetation. The landing party materialized in the designated target area – a small open spot thick with ground-dwelling plants. The Starfleet officers shifted uncomfortably, their boots rustling the chaotic tangle of plants beneath their feet. It was eerily quiet, as if the vegetation had cocooned them into a protective dome, but in reality, the planet itself was silent. It had not progressed to the evolution of animal life forms, and so the only sound was of the air moving through the foliage.

"Which direction, Mr. Spock?" Lt. Perry asked. He was the archeologist who was most comfortable in a jungle-like setting, a bone-digger about to embark on a dig. A large case hung loosely from his fingers as he studied the terrain with a mixture of excitement and curiosity.

"I have fed the coordinates into your tricorder, Lieutenant."

The four security guards who circled them looked like hungry predators about to strike. Spock could sense their anticipation and very human nervousness. Everything was too quiet for them, too isolated. They had relaxed their defenses before, on first landing; lulled into a false sense of security, the planet had betrayed them. Their duty was to protect and secure. They had failed on both accounts with Kirk. They were determined not to fail again.

"Lt. Vogt, clear a parameter," Spock ordered.

Immediately, the guards fanned out as Spock and Perry began to move toward the selected site—the exact location where Kirk had been found—to conduct the deep-surface scan. It was their best hope of finding evidence of an intruder. Spock did not believe that all traces of such evidence could disappear. Even transporters left an energy trail to follow.

Perry set up the equipment, using a laser drill to set the scan deep in the planet's surface. The ground rumbled as the drill skewered into it. "This should show us anything buried. Man-made or natural."

Spock stood to the side, scanning the area around the site. What had drawn Kirk to wander so far from the landing party? The terrain around him was not distinguishable from the beam-down site. There was no path or break in the vegetation that would entice him into the jungle. If there had been a noise, the landing party would also have heard, and they had reported none. This area was too thick with plant life for a visual cue, unless whatever had drawn Kirk this far into the jungle was something only he could see.

"_They were waiting for me."_

The Vulcan eyes narrowed and focused with intensity into the jungle.

* * *

Spock acknowledged the guard at Kirk's door as he entered the dimly lit room. Kirk lay sleeping, motionless, head turned to the side on the soft pillow. The monitor display dominated the space above the bed, the screen a moving exhibit of lines and charts. He stopped at the foot of the bed and watched the sleeping man.

There was something undeniably peaceful in the way Kirk slept, as if he hadn't been attacked and poisoned by an unknown assailant, as if he weren't responsible for the lives of hundreds of beings. That was what fascinated Spock, the human's ability to appear unscathed even while lying wounded in a Sickbay bed.

"If you wake him up, I'll make it my mission in life to make you regret it," McCoy said.

He hadn't heard the door open or the doctor enter, but he remained steadfast and still. Then he drew his hands behind his back and turned just his head to face the visitor with a haughty raised eyebrow that he had learned infuriated humans.

McCoy stood with his arms crossed over his chest, eyeing Spock with an uncompromising, icy stare.

Without a word, Spock looked at Kirk one more time, than turned away and walked quietly out of the room with McCoy close behind.

"When are you going to get rid of this muscle in my Sickbay?" McCoy asked as they passed the silent guard.

"If you are referring to Lt. Ress, he will remain posted until the Captain is well enough to leave Sickbay."

McCoy snorted as they walked into his private office. "He'll remain until Jim finds out you posted a guard to protect him."

Spock ignored the remark. McCoy's office was small with little space to receive visitors. Several PADDs littered the desk, reports waiting to be signed and filed. On the computer screen was a video display of Kirk's room. A second screen showed the vitals monitor. Spock had never entered the private office, conducting any necessary business with McCoy in the Main Bay. He knew Kirk often occupied the room after a shift on the Bridge, and he supposed that patients appreciated the privacy of the office when discussing a medical matter. He found the room…confining.

"You cleared the crew," McCoy said. "Why keep a guard on the door?"

"I cleared the landing party, Doctor McCoy. Until we discover who attacked him, the Captain's life is still in danger, a fact I encourage you to remember."

McCoy sat in the chair behind the desk, folding his body into it as if he owned the space. "You haven't told Jim we're in lockdown."

"You instructed me not to upset the Captain."

McCoy stared at him. He was the one human Spock had difficulty reading. The penetrating hazel eyes saw right through him in a most unnerving manner.

"How is the Captain?"

"Resting. Finally. His fever's down, but his vision is still impaired. I should be able to get him on his feet tomorrow. He's getting restless." He eyed Spock with barely concealed amusement. "How was the dig?"

There were few secrets on a ship and even fewer when the subject was the captain. "Inconclusive."

"Uh huh." A small smile curled the corners of McCoy's mouth.

"You find amusement in that?"

"Amusement in trudging down to the planet to search for something that doesn't exist? Why would I find amusement in that?"

Spock studied the contradictory human for a moment. He had become good at deciphering the underlining meaning of words that humans used so carelessly. But with McCoy, he was never certain if the sarcasm was real. "You believe Captain Kirk is compromised?"

"Of course he's compromised. His entire system is under the influence of a powerful neurotoxin. It's affecting the part of his brain that controls memory. Why do you think he doesn't remember what happened?"

"He remembers enough to warrant an investigation."

McCoy scowled. "You can't trust what he's saying, Spock. He doesn't know what's real and what's a dream. You've got this ship in lockdown, the crew is paranoid, and now you're now excavating the planet for signs of past life. Do you know how crazy that sounds…even for a Vulcan?"

Spock kept his hands tucked behind him, his shoulders straight. Yes, he knew how irrational it sounded, how illogical. Their search had not produced results. All data indicated that the planet was uninhabited and had never been inhabited. It was a new planet, burgeoning in the early stages of life, not yet ready for intelligent life forms. And yet someone had attacked the Captain, and Spock believed that that someone was still there, somehow remaining shielded from their scans. And yes, he would dig into the planet's surface if that is what it took to find the assassin.

McCoy's eyes narrowed. "Christ, you think whoever did this is still on the planet."

He was careful and disciplined when it came to revealing his thoughts. Most humans could not read his stern features. But McCoy was different. The doctor was skilled at interpreting signs and reading people's subtle behaviors. Spock had been taught to think meticulously before drawing conclusions and executing any form of action. The teachers on Vulcan were strict in following curriculum, and they had been twice as strict when it came to his tutelage. Perhaps it was the human part of him revealing the 'gut feeling' Kirk often talked about, but he knew Kirk wasn't compromised. He knew the Captain had been speaking the truth.

But he would say none of this to the doctor.

"I want to be informed the moment the Captain is awake," was all Spock said.

* * *

McCoy secured the light brace in place on Jim's knee. "How does that feel?"

Jim was sitting up in the bed, fidgeting to get out. He stared in the direction of the brace, frowning. "Fine."

"It'll adjust to the shape and condition of your knee, so you shouldn't feel any discomfort. It's designed to compensate for any weaknesses it detects, but it can be a little difficult for patients to get used to." He studied Jim, waiting for an indication that his words had been heard.

Still pale and gaunt, the fever had been reduced enough so that Jim was more comfortable and sleeping better, though the long stay in bed had stiffened his muscles and caused a new series of aches. Even the therapeutic massage McCoy had given him had not completely eliminated the soreness. If all of that was not enough to shorten Jim's temper, his vision still had not improved, and McCoy was getting worried that maybe there was something else going on besides the toxin that was affecting his vision. Jim had developed terrible headaches the past two days, but McCoy had attributed that to primary eye-strain. Now, noticing the tension around the blue eyes, he wasn't as confident in his diagnosis.

"Are you listening to me?" he asked Jim.

"Yes." Jim shifted restlessly. The central line had been removed as promised, and a new IV catheter had been inserted in the peripheral vein in his arm. "Are we doing this or not?" He bent his right leg, poised to get out of the bed.

"Hold on," McCoy said and nodded to Chapel.

Chapel had moved the IV line to accommodate Jim's excursion out of bed. She now stood on the opposite side of him, ready to assist.

McCoy put a supportive hand on the injured leg, just at the ankle and gently guided it off the bed. "Don't put any weight on it at first. Give your body a chance to adjust."

Still sitting on the edge of the bed, Jim reached out as his other leg followed the first. As his bare feet touched the hard deck, he swayed slightly, struggling to adjust to the vertical position and lack of sight that provided no markers for his perception. The color of the world was the same for him whether he was lying down or standing.

"Take your time," McCoy said easily. He offered a hand beneath Jim's arm both as support and a means of awareness. "Shift your weight to your right leg."

Jim's respirations increased as a hint of color flushed his cheeks.

"Are you okay?" McCoy asked. His eyes quickly scanned the monitor as his hand protectively tightened on Jim's arm.

Jim nodded and braced himself to stand. He pushed off the bed, staggering as he reeled to one side. McCoy's fingers sunk into his arm as Chapel lent a supporting hand at his waist. He grunted and leaned heavily on McCoy's hand, trying to find his equilibrium while keeping weight off his injured knee.

"Breathe, Jim."

Jim stood listing to one side and drew a shaky breath. He stared at the floor, just a few feet in front of him, looking confused and determined.

"Think you can take a step?" McCoy asked, watching him closely.

He nodded and picked up his left leg, wincing as he did so. It wasn't quite a step. His foot barely cleared the deck as he dragged it forward.

"Good," McCoy said. "Take your time."

Jim was breathing heavily and sweating from the effort. His fingers clutched at McCoy's arm as he clumsily and cautiously put some weight on the injured leg, drawing his right leg parallel. A soft grunt escaped his lips.

McCoy's eyes flickered to the monitor that showed an increase in vitals. Nothing that he hadn't anticipated and there were no alarms or warnings to warrant concern, just Jim's fingers digging into his arm with a steel grip. He wasn't sure if Jim was clutching him for balance or because of pain.

"How's the pain?" McCoy asked, studying the man's face and the thin rivulets of sweat that ran down his temples.

Jim nodded, his eyes still staring at the colorless deck. They were unfocused.

"Jim, answer me."

Jim took another staggered breath. "Fine," he said thinly.

McCoy scowled, eyeing Chapel, who was equally alert. Getting a patient on his feet for the first time was always unpredictable – for both the patient and the medical staff. Jim wouldn't be the first patient to collapse simply from the change in position when blood pressures suddenly fell. But Jim seemed to have steadied somewhat and his grip on McCoy's arm lessened. He seemed to be pulling away.

"Not too much weight," McCoy said. "Those ligaments are new."

The moment Jim shifted his weight to the injured knee McCoy knew it was a mistake. It was as if an electric jolt tore through Jim's body. His spine straightened and his body convulsed. He didn't have time to cry out. The blood drained from his face as he gasped.

"Jim…." The muscles beneath his fingers were rock hard and trembling. He quickly wrapped an arm around the slim waist. "Okay, I've got you. Lean on me. Just keep breathing."

They stood unmoving, Chapel and McCoy on either side of the unsteady man who looked about ready to drop at any moment. Jim was breathing heavily and trying to stay on his feet, but he did not make any attempt to move. Instead, he stood like a man on thin ice, fearing the very breaths he took would cause him to plummet into the icy depths.

"Do you want to get back into bed?"

Jim didn't answer. He stood on unsteady legs, trembling and sweating, blindly staring ahead.

"Christine." McCoy made a motion with his head. If Jim couldn't answer him that meant he was ready to lie down. They maneuvered him back onto the bed, carefully lifting his leg as he settled back onto the mattress.

Chapel fussed with the IV lines and blankets, while McCoy positioned the injured leg onto the pillow. He felt the muscles of Jim's calf drawn tight and contracting. The leg jerked and Jim cursed through clenched teeth as the cramp intensified.

"Okay, try to relax." McCoy skilfully massaged the new muscle, his fingers pushing into the hard flesh. "It takes a while for the new muscle to get flexible so that it doesn't cramp up every time it's used. That should go away in a few days. Unfortunately, until it gains some flexibility, you're going to have some cramping."

Chapel offered a cool cloth to Jim's flushed skin, but he pushed it away in irritation, his face tense.

"I don't care about the cramping. Damn it, Bones." Jim was rubbing his temples with one hand. "I wasn't done."

McCoy eyed Chapel and a silent thought passed between them. She was an experienced nurse and knew how pain and immobility affected patients' moods. One moment they were docile and appreciative, the next bitter and vindictive.

"You looked done to me," McCoy said, finishing the massage and moving up toward the front of the bed. "Head hurt?"

"No," he said shortly.

But McCoy knew he was lying. The increase in blood pressure and swollen temporal arteries was evidence enough. "Your electrolytes are low. Christine, can you get him some T-lyte."

"Yes, Doctor," she said and left the room.

"Okay, we're alone," McCoy said, looking down at Jim who was still rubbing his temples. "What's bothering you? I told you that the first time putting weight on your leg was going to be difficult. It'll take a little time."

"I don't **have** time. I need to get on my feet and I need to be able to see more than a half a meter in front of me." He dropped his hand from his temple and glared at McCoy. "I want to try again."

McCoy put a hand on his chest to keep him from rising. "You're done for now. Your blood-pressure's up and so is your pain – even if you won't admit it. I just got your temperature down. I'm not going to risk you tearing tendons or that new muscle just so you can prove a point."

Jim pushed his hand away and he noticed Jim was trembling.

"This isn't about your leg," McCoy said flatly. "This is about your meeting with Spock. You've been in a foul mood since he returned from the planet. What did you expect him to find, Jim? Some long lost civilization lurking in the shrubs? The planet's uninhabited."

"It's inhabited enough for someone to have put an arrow into my leg." A shiver passed through him and he shifted, grimacing.

McCoy glanced up at the monitor and frowned. "Jim, I know this is frustrating for you. You don't like being sidelined. I get it. But have you considered that whoever did this is long gone?"

Jim was shifting restlessly in obvious discomfort. "This brace is too tight."

"It's supposed to be tight and don't change the subject."

Scowling, Jim settled back onto the bed, still shivering. "They're not gone."

"How do you know?" he asked, pulling the blanket up to cover Jim.

"I just know." His respiration was increased and the slight flush to his cheeks had faded, leaving him pale. "It's not something I can explain, Bones, but I know where to look."

He stared at Jim as everything suddenly came together for him. "Jim, if you're thinking you're going back down to that planet – think again."

"Why not? I'm the only one who knows what happened down there."

"You don't remember what happened. Let Spock do his investigation. You're staying put."

"I'll remember if I go back there." Jim closed his eyes.

"Are you out of your mind? You can't see. You can barely stand and you're still fighting off the effects of this toxin. I'm not letting you go down to that planet in your condition so you can satisfy your curiosity."

"I don't have a condition and I didn't ask for your permission."

"Well, you're gonna have to because I haven't released you for duty." He paused a moment to get control of his temper. He felt his pulse slow as he let go of his anger and frustration. In the intermission, a new thought came to him. "Are you remembering something?"

It took a moment for Jim to open his eyes. Despite the intensity of their blue color, his eyes appeared dull and unfocused. The gentle lines in his face relaxed into an expression of sorrow, confusion…uncertainty? He looked like a man on the verge of discovering something important, or a man who had just been shown something impossible. Whichever it was, it held Jim in place.

McCoy laid a hand on his bicep. "Jim, you've always been able to tell me everything. What aren't you telling me now?"

He looked at McCoy. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper. "I feel like…I was someplace else."

A dozen things went through McCoy's mind. The medical doctor in him was diagnosing and evaluating. He knew that the toxin was affecting Jim's memory. He also knew that the real memory was locked inside Jim's head and that nothing was ever really forgotten. The human brain was complex; it found ways of functioning at levels that medicine still had not mapped. Jim wanted answers, and it was possible his subconscious was providing those answers through images or feelings that could easily be misinterpreted. After all, Jim had first suspected it was one of the guards who had shot him.

Before he could come up with a response, Jim's body suddenly stiffened and he pressed back into the pillows, his face contorted in pain. In an instant, Jim's hands went to his head as a gasp escaped his tightly compressed lips.

"Okay, Jim. Try to relax." McCoy quickly lowered the bed just as Chapel entered.

She quickened her pace and retrieved a loaded hypo, anticipating McCoy's orders.

"My head-" Jim ground out.

"I know. Hold on." Chapel slapped the hypo into his hands and he pressed it against Jim's neck. Within seconds, Jim went limp, his hands falling from his temples to lie motionless on the pillow.

"Those are getting more frequent," Chapel said, taking back the empty hypo.

He nodded and studied the monitor for a long minute, and then he carefully repositioned Jim's arms to lie at his sides. "Run another toxicology, Christine. And let's schedule a neuroscan for tomorrow. I want to know where these attacks are coming from."

"Yes, Doctor."

When she had left, McCoy pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

The persistent chime penetrated McCoy's brain, rousing him from a sound sleep.

_What now?_

In the history of medicine, no doctor had been allowed to sleep the night through and not be bothered at least once in his professional career with an emergency or the occasional fretful patient. McCoy was no exception. He was Chief Medical Officer on a Federation issue starship full of some four-hundred plus beings, trapped in a vessel with little or no help available. In his tenure, he had not gone more than four nights in a row without an interruption. He was hoping to break that record someday.

He rolled over to hit the release button on the terminal next to this bed. "McCoy."

He didn't bother to open his eyes, hoping it was a minor issue that would allow him to go back to sleep – an order that needed his approval, or pharmacology only he could prescribe. After so many years in residency when his hours were almost criminal, he had conditioned his body to fall asleep quickly, getting sleep in when and where he could.

"It's Dr. Wessin, sir," the young male voice came through the sound system in McCoy's assigned quarters.

There was an edge to the voice that instantly alerted him. Wessin was the on-call physician on gamma shift; a competent doctor, but a bit inexperienced and often over-eager.

He opened his eyes to the dark interior of his quarters. He had not activated the viewing screen. "What is it, Wessin?"

"Captain Kirk is spiking a fever, sir. It's 39.4 and rising."

_Shit!_

His feet were on the floor before his brain had a chance to register the movement. "Computer, lights. When did it start?"

"About two hours ago, sir. I gave his 120mg of Privicia at 0234."

He was struggling into his pants, his adrenalin pumping. "Why the hell didn't you call me earlier?"

"Captain Kirk's temperature has been fluctuating for days. I thought it was another minor elevation."

"Well it's not." He pulled on a tunic in a single, angry motion. His mind was racing through diagnoses. Jim's blood tests had come back clean - no sign of infection and the toxin was almost completely out of his system. Except for the visual problems and headaches, Jim had recovered substantially in the past week he'd been in Sickbay. There was nothing that should be causing a high fever. "What are his vitals?"

"Respirations 22, BP 110 over 60, pulse 150."

Tachycardia. Goddamn it. He grabbed his boots and headed toward the door. "Get him on a cooling blanket. I'm on my way. And **don't **do anything else."

By the time he entered Sickbay, Wessin and two nurses were in the isolation room with a feverish and barely conscious Kirk. Wessin quickly handed him Jim's chart, but he didn't look at it right away. He moved to the side of the bed and looked down at Jim. Pale and shivering, Jim lay beneath the cooling blanket, eyes closed and moving restlessly.

The neuro scan he'd run two days ago had shown what he'd expected: interference in the occipital lobe. No masses or inflammation. Jim had even been able to walk to the end of the room and back with little support. His balance had been off, but that was expected.

"Did he complain about any pain or feeling flushed?" he asked, pulling the blanket down to Jim's hips. He drew the Sickbay gown up to expose the abdomen. He'd known toxins to hide in the liver for weeks before evincing any physical signs. The liver could hide accumulations even from cellular scans.

"No," Wessin replied. "He was a little restless and his respiration was up, but his pain indicator was at normal level for him."

He gently palpated Jim's liver, concentrating on what his sensitive fingers told him. He felt no mass or inflammation. Looking up at the monitor, he studied the readouts. He had lowered the dose of analgesic within the past twenty-four hours, but that would not have caused a fever. The vitals indicated an infection. He glanced down at the chart in his hands. Blood gases looked poor, but the white blood cell count was normal. No infection.

He moved the blanket aside to examine the injured knee. The calf muscle he had graphed in place had been giving Jim some issues. The nerves had been hypersensitive and firing off shocks of pain. But when he examined the knee, he could see no swelling or distortion. The leg was still discolored from the toxin, but when he put his hands on the firm calf, he felt no heat or tremors.

"Run a deep cellular scan on his leg," he ordered. "Maybe something is still lingering in the new tissue that we missed. And I want a CBC and full liver panel."

"Yes, sir." Wessin hesitated a moment. "Did I miss something?"

McCoy shook his head, reviewing the vitals again as Wessin left. What the hell was causing such a high fever? He studied the monitor and frowned. In addition to the rising temperature, the other vitals were showing fluctuations: heart rate, arterial pressure, blood-pressure, oxygen saturation. What he would expect from a high fever.

"Hang a unit of saline and start him on Niotripine, slow drip." He covered Jim with the blanket. The Niotripine was an iotrope that would help with the heart's contractibility and hopefully get Jim's heart rate stronger and bring the blood gases closer to normal.

He tapped the orders into the PADD and handed them to the nurse before moving toward the head of the bed. Jim's lips were softly parted as he drew shallow breaths. His chest contracted with the rapid respirations. The fever was causing his brain to send signals to his body to cool down, secreting hormones, shivering and constricting blood vessels – all in an attempt to cool the body. The problem was, those attempts were causing an entirely different set of issues. Ones McCoy now needed to manage.

Jim's brows wrinkled slightly as his eyes fluttered open. The blue eyes were bright with fever, but unfocused. The pupils were dilated. He shivered as he struggled to orient himself. "Wessin?"

"It's McCoy." Jim still wasn't seeing clearly.

A nurse moved to the IV regulator and began to hang a new bag of the solutions he had ordered. The motion caught Jim's attention.

"What's wrong?"

"You have a high fever. I'm going to give you some fluids and medication to help reduce it."

The frown persisted and his gaze drifted slightly. He moved restlessly, pushing the cooling blanket away. "Cold."

"You need this on you right now." McCoy returned the blanket to cover Jim's chest. "We've got to cool you off."

"Someone's here," Jim said weakly. His breathing was becoming labored and he scanned the room in a desperate attempt to interpret the images that surrounded him.

"Just me and a couple of nurses."

Jim shook his head. His frown deepened. "Someone's calling me."

"No." He put a hand on Jim's fevered forehead, feeling the heat rising through his palms. ""No one's calling you, Jim. Rest."

A faint chime sounded. He looked up at the monitor. A first level warning of low oxygen saturation. He tapped at the control panel on the biobed, activating the oxygen source that would deliver a field of high-concentrate oxygen around Jim. It was less obtrusive than a mask, which Jim did not tolerate as well. He watched as the oxygen saturation climbed and leveled off.

Jim became still. The shivers ceased as he lay exhausted, breathing shallowly.

After a moment, McCoy turned his attention to Jim's file.

* * *

It was before the start of alpha shift when Spock walked into the isolation room at the rear of the main Sickbay. He had been alerted that Kirk's condition had unexpectedly taken a significant turn for the worse. No other information was given in the terse and brief update, forcing Spock to make a personal appearance and evaluate the situation. McCoy was not prone to overreaction, and was entirely competent as a medical doctor, but his attachment to the Captain had, at times, made him overprotective.

The doors into the isolation room hissed open, announcing his arrival. He stopped abruptly just beyond the threshold, unprepared for the emotional assault that struck him. Pain and fear attacked him with such intensity that he almost gasped from the sheer magnitude and rawness of it. In his years among humans, he had never felt anything as divergent as the emotions that filled the room, pressing into each corner like an invisible entity angrily trying to find escape. He knew instantly who was responsible for the emotions. Despite the vitality, he could easily recognize the thread of warmth in the mind that was becoming more familiar to him each day.

McCoy and two nurses hovered around Kirk's bed, sponging his bared skin with cloths, but he barely noticed them. His entire focus was on the man in the bed, shaking with fever, muttering rapidly in a string of chaotic and senseless thoughts that barely resembled English.

Delirium.

He took only a brief moment to put his mental shields in place, then walked to the bed. "What has happened?"

McCoy stood on the opposite side, wiping Kirk's shivering body. He didn't look up at Spock's approach, but kept his focus tightly on Kirk. The blanket had been pulled down to Kirk's hips to expose his torso to the medical staff's ministrations. Kirk moved restlessly under their hands, weakly batting at them as if the mere touch of the cloth irritated him. "He's spiking a high fever."

Spock looked up at the monitor. Temperature: 41.3. Dangerously high for a human. "What is the cause?"

The last report he had reviewed, a mere fifteen hours earlier, had shown favorable progress in Kirk's recovery. He had stopped by during alpha mess call to share a light dinner….

"_Am I fatiguing you?" he asked Kirk, eyeing the tray of half-eaten food._

_Kirk was resting against the mattress, in a semi-upright position with his eyes closed. He opened them at Spock's question, a small smile curling the corners of his mouth. "No. Just resting my eyes."_

"_Doctor McCoy informs me that your vision is improving each day."_

_Kirk grimaced. "We have different definitions of improving. Anyway, if Bones had his way I'd be in Sickbay for another week." He sighed loudly and shifted. "I'm ready to get out of here."_

"_Doctor McCoy is merely exercising caution for the sake of your well-being."_

_Kirk frowned. "Don't you start, Spock. We're not getting anywhere with me lying in bed."_

_Spock nodded. "Doctor McCoy informed me of your plans to beam down to the planet. Do you think that prudent, given the circumstances?"_

"_I sure as hell can't find what I'm looking for up here." Kirk paused. "I assume we are still orbiting the planet?"_

"_We are." He sat silently, studying Kirk. In the past two days, the Captain had regained some of his strength. McCoy's treatments and care had given his complexion some color. Soon Kirk would be released to convalesce in his quarters. Spock contemplated if now was the time to inform Kirk of his decision to go into lockdown, of the guard at the door and of his suspicions of an internal affairs situation. "Captain—"_

_Kirk flexed his injured knee with a wince. "I hate being hobbled." He rolled his head along the pillow to look at Spock. "We missed something, Spock."_

"_Obviously."_

"_I have to get down to that planet. It's the only way to learn what really happened."_

"_You believe that beaming down to the place where we found you will trigger a memory."_

"_It'll trigger something." His expression deepened and for a moment he appeared sad or forlorn, then he pulled himself out of it and glanced at Spock with a very boyish look . "If Bones doesn't let me out of here soon, I'm going to break that door down."_

Spock took a deep breath and looked down at Kirk whose steady stream of words filled the room. "Doctor?"

"I don't know," McCoy said tersely, not looking away from his task. His hands moved with sureness over Kirk's fevered skin, expertly avoiding Kirk's attempts to strike at his hands. "Christine, lower the setting on the cooling system another three degrees." McCoy looked up at the IV solutions that were almost empty. "Keep the chilled saline running and piggy-back it with 400ml of Propastylin."

"Yes, Doctor." She stepped away from Kirk to comply with McCoy's orders.

McCoy set the cloth aside and was pulling the blanket up to cover Kirk's shivering body when Kirk suddenly reached out and grabbed hold of McCoy's sleeve, twisting his fingers into the tunic. He leaned forward, his eyes wide and fever-bright. He had not stopped the incessant stream of words since Spock had entered the room.

"Get to the guard they are waiting for me I can't see I don't know get to the guard they are waiting I'm coming I can't see I can't see." His head dropped back in exhaustion, but his hand kept a firm grip on McCoy's sleeve, holding the doctor in place. "Get to the guard they are waiting what have we done we have to go back."

On and on it went, his words filling the confined room with urgency and fear.

McCoy rested a hand on the top of Kirk's head. "You're safe, Jim."

"They're there I can't see I can't see."

A sharp whistle interrupted Kirk's string of thoughts.

"Doctor McCoy to Med Bay One. Code Green."

"Damn it," McCoy swore softly and carefully extricated himself from Kirk's grip, turning to Spock as he did so. "Stay with him."

McCoy didn't wait for a response, but dashed past him and out the door, leaving him alone with the delirious man. For a moment, it seemed as if Kirk had sunk into himself, mumbling softly with his eyes half-closed. His arms were slightly curled with his hands over his chest, shaking and trembling from the fever. The IV lines shook and Spock could see where McCoy had secured them to Kirk's forearm to keep them from being pulled loose.

Spock stepped to the side of the bed, feeling the emotions pouring from Kirk unchecked. It was a unique experience for Spock. In his limited time with Kirk, he had come to know the human was emotional, passionate and exceptionally intelligent. But he was also disciplined and undeniably guarded. He let few people into his personal life, from what Spock had observed. Some of this guardedness was due to the exigencies of command. But the rest was Kirk's nature. He was a private man.

Kirk roused suddenly, his eyes opening wide and searching. They locked onto Spock with desperation. "Don't leave. Don't leave."

Spock stood in place, uncertain of how to respond. His first innate reaction was to tense, as though he were about to retreat. He glanced momentarily at the door.

Kirk reached out and caught hold of Spock's sleeve with his trembling fingers. "Sam. Sam…don't…don't leave me."

Spock looked down at the flushed face, twisted into an expression of grief and anguish. The heat from Kirk's fingers penetrated the thin fabric of his tunic.

"Don't leave me with him. He hates me." Kirk's hand tugged at him, clawing.

Spock hesitated only a moment before covering the hand with his own. He winced at the onslaught of emotions that assaulted him with the contact.

_A fisted hand slammed into the side of his head and sent him reeling. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and his ears rang. Numbness faded quickly to a biting sting that spread across the side of his face. He struggled for balance as another fist sent his small body to the ground. In the pain was a flutter of satisfaction that he had borne it without breaking, but it was not enough. He knew he'd been left behind. He was alone…._

Spock could not touch the mind that reached out to him, and would not have tried even if he were able. Such an act was an unforgivable violation of Vulcan ethics and a deep betrayal of trust. All he could do was squeeze the trembling hand. "I will not leave you," he said in hushed voice.

"I'll be alone. Stay with me. Don't go."

Such desperation in the blue eyes and a longing for understanding, to answer the question that had plagued him since childhood, the question Spock clearly heard in the chaos of the fevered mind: _Why did you leave me?_

Then, in an instant, the emotions shifted. The pain and longing morphed into rage. "Fuck you, then. I don't need anybody."

Spock could feel the energy drain from Kirk. His grip weakened, but Spock kept hold of his hand.

"I'm going to get out of here," Kirk said faintly. His eyes rolled upwards slightly as the lids slid closed. Finally he lay still, his body spent, his lips softly parted with faint breaths.

For a long time, Spock held Kirk's hand, watching him breathe, his mind finally at rest. Then Spock lowered the hand to the bed and straightened just as the med-bay doors slid open.

"Dumb ass," McCoy was mumbling under his breath as he entered. His sleeves were rolled up and his tunic was rumpled. He looked agitated as he walked up to the bed and studied the monitor before resting his eyes on Kirk. At that, his expression softened. He laid a hand on Kirk's face and gently pulled back one of the closed lids with his thumb, carefully examining the dulled blue eye. He took a breath. "He's unconscious."

Chapel, obviously delayed with the same emergency McCoy had attended, arrived with the prescribed medications and McCoy stepped out of her way with a heavy sigh.

Spock followed him as he stepped away from the bed, rubbing a hand to the back of his neck. "I don't know where the hell it's coming from. His blood tests are clean. The muscle graph is good. The cells around the knee are normal. No issue with the implants, and the scans don't show anything that should be causing a fever."

Spock merely nodded.

McCoy's hand froze on the back of his neck. His eyes narrowed. "You're quiet. Everything okay while I was gone?"

"Yes."

McCoy's eyes stayed on him a moment longer before looking away. "We'll keep pushing the meds. His body can take this fever for a few more hours without damage." He looked back at Kirk, now lying motionless. "Let's hope it breaks as quickly as it started."

* * *

Everything around him moved at an incredibly slow pace, as if the world outside his body operated in a different space. Through blurry vision, he saw Bones hovering above him, a worried expression pinching the other man's features.

_Don't worry, Bones._

He couldn't make his tongue work. It was paralyzed in his mouth, locked down at the very back of his throat.

Bones' hand pressed to his forehead and he saw his friend's lips move, but he couldn't hear what was said. Sounds were as distorted as his vision, so he closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.

The next time he opened his eyes, his body was on fire and everything was accelerated to warp speed: thoughts, lights, sounds, the very air he breathed. All of it rushed him into a fast-moving stream where he was helpless to slow down. He could feel his heart hammering and his lips moving as thoughts raced into his mind. Images and sensations collided as if he could feel colors. Hands touched him, soothed him, punished him, ignored him. He was hot and cold at once, achy and revived, feeble and powerful.

Sometimes he couldn't move and other times he was in constant motion, racing to keep up with his thoughts. For a moment he was the center of everything. At that moment a thought pressed into him, insistent and strong, a narrow beam of energy that bore into his skull and was buried deep in his mind.

_We are waiting for you. _


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

It was gatekeeper, not guard. The word penetrated the quiet of his mind as he released his meditation. He took a moment to bring his consciousness to awareness. Spock opened his eyes to the gentle flicker of the flame on his altar. He rested on the heels of his feet, with his knees pressed to the cushion his mother had made him over two decades earlier. A gift for his birthday. It still carried her scent. A heavy, plush cloak was draped over his shoulders, to keep his body temperature stable as he sank into meditation.

It was late into gamma shift and the sounds of the ship seemed oddly muted to his ears, as though the four hundred and sixty-eight beings on board had also retreated for repose. He remained in the Vulcan meditation pose, focused on the images and thoughts that had surfaced during his introspection. It was his custom to meditate before retiring, but tonight had been different. He had descended into a deeper than normal meditation to quiet his mind from the chaotic emotions he had shared earlier with a feverish Kirk. Though Kirk's fever had broken hours earlier, Spock still could feel the onslaught of the human's emotions. Kirk's mind was dynamic, his unchecked emotions intense, and Spock had discovered that his usual level of meditation was not sufficient to regain his mental equilibrium. He had intended only to quiet his mind, but the deeper he went, the stronger the connection with Kirk, until it seemed as though he could not achieve separation.

Kirk's mind had been eager to join with his. There had been no conscious effort, no agreement between them, but he had found Kirk's mind as easily as he would have found his mother's. As though the link had always been there. More than that, Kirk's mind had also found his, like nerves reconnecting to a severed limb, as though the thin fiber that stretched between them had always been there.

And that is how he knew it was not a guard that Kirk had seen on the planet, but a gatekeeper. In Kirk's toxin-filled body, with his brain still marginally impaired, he had mixed up the words. It was a _gatekeeper _who had been waiting for Kirk.

Everything Kirk had said from the very beginning suddenly made sense. For the first time since initiating his investigation, Spock knew where to look.

He rose from the cushion in a single move and dressed to go to the bridge.

* * *

…A gatekeeper, not a guard. That was Kirk's first conscious thought as he opened his eyes. He swore softly-he still couldn't see.

"That's gratitude for you," the familiar voice welcomed him.

"Bones?" The word was barely a whisper. He frowned, carefully turning his head toward a blurred, indistinguishable form. He saw blue, which was an improvement over the grey and smoke-washed images to which he had become accustomed. A warm hand pressed to his shoulder.

"Yes, it's me. How are you feeling?"

"Like somebody stomped on me." His voice sounded rough and weak. His chest felt heavy like the rest of him, and his mouth was parched and dry, his tongue sticking to the roof.

"I'm not surprised. You had a very high fever." The blurry image loomed over him, a cap of dark hair atop the fuzzy figure.

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the familiar ache settle in behind them. He could only imagine the look on Bones' face, the slight amused lift of his thin eyebrows that conveyed a plethora of thoughts, and the deep set of the light hazel-colored eyes that seemed always to be appraising, evaluating. He had always been unnerved by Bones' speculative glances, by the way the doctor could so easily read him, but now he realized how much he missed seeing his friend's expressions.

"Headache?" Bones asked.

"Thirsty."

"Here, this will help."

Something hard touched his lips and he opened his eyes, seeing the outline of a small glass of water. He gratefully drank from the straw that was offered, letting the tepid water slide down his arid throat. After a moment, the straw was withdrawn, leaving him gasping for breath.

"That's enough for now."

His heart slammed as he tried to get his breathing under control, suddenly feeling exhausted from taking a drink. As he concentrated on slowing his breath, he became aware of the tingling pressure of the oxygen field set over his chest. That explained why he was so thirsty. Shit. He weakly shifted positions, his limbs moving as though they were lead weighted beneath the covers. My god, he was sore. A shiver rippled through him. He saw Bones reach to the monitor over his head.

"What shift is it?" he asked, realizing he had lost all sense of time. The last thing he remembered, he had been having dinner with Spock.

"End of alpha. Your fever broke over eighteen hours ago. You've slept all day." Bones pulled the blanket closer around him. A warmth spread from the mattress and he realized that Bones had adjusted the temperature setting on the bed.

Eighteen hours? No wonder he was sore.

"You still need rest. The fever took a lot out of you."

Bullshit. He just needed a minute to catch his breath. "Was Spock here?"

"Earlier. While you were sleeping."

_Gatekeeper._ The word surfaced again in his mind, but he let it fade without pursuing it. He carefully flexed his injured knee, testing the ligaments. The knee was stiff and achy like the rest of him, but at least the calf muscle was not shocking him with pinpoints of pain or sending white-hot ribbons through the muscle in a series of cramps. For the moment, it was pleasantly numb.

"How is your vision?" Bones asked, still hovering over him.

"I can see the color of your uniform and I know you're not Chapel. That's about it."

Bones nodded. "When you're more rested, I want to run some tests. Until then, don't strain your eyes."

He made a soft protesting sound. "It's not like I've got anything to see. You've got me a prisoner in this room. You won't let me have a PADD, and every time I ask for an update report, Spock gives me the Vulcan version of pithy." He paused to catch his breath, feeling a wave of dizziness pass over. His head began to pound.

There was a pause before Bones spoke. "Like I said, you need rest."

He frowned and strained to see the expression on Bones' face. Not that it would help much. Bones was a master of controlling his facial expressions when he wanted. Probably all those years dealing with emotional patients. But Kirk had gotten good at reading his friend.

"What aren't you telling me, Bones?" Blind and sequestered, he was still captain and this was still his ship. And then he thought about it. "Why haven't I had any visitors?"

"You hate visitors in Sickbay." Bones tapped on the PADD in his hands that seemed to materialize from thin air.

That was true. He didn't like the idea of the crew seeing him flat on his back. Better to be the wounded hero, hobbling around the ship, than the captain laid out on a biobed. It wasn't good for morale to see the commanding officer sick and weak. Still….

"Stop straining your eyes," Bones commanded. "Computer, lights twenty percent."

The lights dimmed and he wasn't able to see anything, the shadows washing into the background. Even the small bit of blue from Bones' tunic faded. It forced him to close his eyes. Exhaustion settled heavily on him.

"Get some rest, Jim."

"Wait." He pulled his eyes open. "Who is the gatekeeper?"

"I don't know, Jim." A warm hand on his forehead. "Rest now."

When he opened his eyes again, he sensed that time had passed and there was the niggling thought that he'd forgotten something important. The room was light and another person moved near the head of his bed. He could tell from the fragrance that it wasn't Bones.

"You're awake," Chapel said. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been in hibernation too long." His voice still sounded rough and weak.

"You've been sleeping for a while. That's good. You needed it." Chapel produced a glass of water with a straw and he drank greedily. When he was finished, she elevated the bed so that he was inclined at a comfortable angle.

"Better?" she asked.

"Thank you." He looked around the room and was disappointed to see that his vision had not improved from the last time he had opened his eyes. "Where's Bones?"

"Releasing a crewmember. I'll let him know you're awake."

"What happened? Someone was hurt?"

"A broken leg. Ensign Fassel fell half way down a Jefferies tube. He'll be all right. I'll get Dr. McCoy for you."

When he was alone, he allowed himself a moment to take inventory of himself. His muscles felt stiff, but not the deep ache he had felt earlier. He tested a deep breath and felt a tight pull in his chest, a warning that his lungs were still not fully healed. But he didn't feel the pressure of the oxygen field and that meant Bones' must have thought he was doing better. He carefully stretched his arms over his head, reveling in the feeling of being able to move.

As tired as he was, his body craved movement. He pushed himself off the mattress to sit up. The room tipped as vertigo assaulted him. His fingers twisted into the blanket for support. _Maybe this wasn't such a good idea_. In a moment, it passed. The room righted as his head began to pound. _Definitely not a good idea_. He was contemplating easing his legs out of bed when a strong voice cut through his concentration.

"Don't even think about it, Jim." Bones quickly closed the distance to the bed and laid a hand on his shoulder, easing him back onto the mattress. "You want to land flat on your face and add a concussion to everything else?"

His temper rose. He hated the way Bones spoke in absolutes as much as he hated being handled. "I'm not going to land on my face."

"Uh, ha." Bones didn't sound the least interested. He was studying the monitor, but kept his hand on Jim's shoulder. After a long moment, he turned to look at Jim. "How are you feeling?"

"Rested. What happened to Ensign Fassel?"

"He fractured his tibia. I already released him. How's your headache?"

"Great, thanks for asking." He flexed his knee, wincing at the stiffness. "Can I get out of here now?"

Bones sighed. "I know you're restless, Jim, but your body is recovering from a very high fever. Let's see how you do today. You need to regain some strength —"

"I can regain my strength in my quarters," he said tersely.

"—and I still need to run some tests."

He let out a pent-up breath and shifted in the bed. "Bones, I need to get out of this bed." A sharp pinch at his right wrist drew his attention. "What are you doing?"

"Just removing your IV. Hold still."

He felt the catheter pull through his vein with a brief sting. After so long, it felt good to be free of the device. Bones gently rubbed the site, easing some of the ache.

"You know, you're a lot more cooperative when you're unconscious."

To which he responded by making a soft hissing sound.

"How does your knee feel?" Bones asked, moving toward the other side of the bed to examine his knee.

"Stiff."

Bones drew the blanket back to expose his knee. He heard the whirl of a scanner then felt Bones' warm hands gently touch his knee. "Can you flex it?"

He bent his leg, feeling the muscles stiffen and tighten. It was like moving a rusty door hinge.

"How's the muscle?" Bones' fingers pressed into the tender muscle from the bottom of his knee to the top of his ankle.

His leg jumped spontaneously with the probing.

"Did that hurt?"

He shook his head.

"The nerves are still sensitive." Bones drew the blanket back over his leg. "You're going to need some PT, but it looks good. It's going to be unstable for a while. I'll keep the brace in place. That should help until the ligaments strengthen." Bones moved closer to the head of the bed. "Feel up to a shower?"

Hell yes.

An hour later, he was showered, shaved and resting back in the bed with a tray of food in front of him. The linens had been changed and Bones had left fresh clothes for him – a black tee-shirt and black, loose-fitting bottoms. He felt half-way human again, though the excursion to the shower had taken more out of him than he cared to admit. His knee had not cooperated much, making the short jaunt twice as long. Still, it had been worth it, if for no other reason than to have a few minutes of peace without interruption, a luxury he had not experienced in quite some time. Being in command, he had given up much of his privacy, more than he realized. It was times like these that he cherished his time alone, if only for a brief moment.

"That perked you up," Bones said approvingly from his position at the foot of the bed. "Finish eating and I'll see about getting you out of here."

"Wh-what?" He tried to focus on Bones, but his eyes would not cooperate. Had he heard correctly? Why the change of heart? "You're releasing me?"

"I have some tests I want to run, but…yes, I think you're strong enough to recover in your quarters. But I want you to **stay **in your quarters. You can't see well enough to be gallivanting around the ship."

This was an absurd statement. Jim could find his way around _Enterprise _completely blind, and deaf as well. But he wasn't going to argue with Bones and jeopardize pissing off the only man who would release him from this hell. He had work to do and he couldn't get it done from here.

"And don't think I haven't noticed that you are still having severe headaches. Your blood work and vitals look good – surprisingly good, but you need to rest…and **eat**."

Fine, he'd eat. He'd stand on his head and sing the Tellerite mating call if it meant getting out of Sickbay.

The door hissed open and a figure walked into the room.

"Captain, it is good to see you recovered," Spock said as he approached the bed. "You appear…refreshed."

"And confused. The last thing I remember is having dinner with you. We talked about beaming down and running a Class One scan."

"Those were two separate conversations, Captain."

He blinked, as if to clear his fuzzy vision, as if seeing gave him an advantage over the Vulcan. "We didn't beam down?"

"No."

Why did he think he had? Why did it seem as if he'd been someplace else, someplace other than _Enterprise_? His head pounded and he realized he was straining his vision, trying to decipher Spock's body posture, an impossible task with a Vulcan. He shifted uncomfortably, sensing the penetrating gazes of his friends. Rubbing a hand over his aching eyes, he said lightly, "These walls are starting to close in on me. I'll be glad to get out of here."

"Doctor McCoy is releasing you?" Spock asked.

He nodded, dropping his hand and leaning back into the pillows.

"Just to his quarters," Bones said.

They seemed to be speaking to each other and not to him, and there was a hint of tension in their voices, an underlining concern they were keeping secret from him. He was good at reading body language, especially eyes. He had even gotten good at reading Spock…somewhat. Without his vision, they had the advantage.

"What's going on?" He made it a command, his tone flat.

Someone shifted his weight.

"Nothing, Jim," Bones said. "I've got some things to get ready for those tests."

His frown deepened as he watched Bones walk out, fading into the clouded background, leaving Spock standing in place, silent and abiding. "You don't have anything to say?"

"In regards to what, Captain?"

"Don't play dumb, Spock. You know damn well what I'm asking." His head began to pound and he took a moment to check his temper, feeling fatigue overcome him. "I'm still captain of this ship."

"Indeed you are."

He waited, wondering if Spock was going to say what he hoped he would say, but the Vulcan remained silent. His head continued to pound and he waited just another long moment before saying, "There's a guard at my door."

Spock settled his shoulders, moving his slim figure into an impossibly straight form. "As a precaution."

"This is **my ship**. Do you realize what placing a guard on my door says to the crew? And when in hell were you going to tell me this?"

"I was waiting for you to recover."

_We are waiting for you._

He went cold inside and suddenly he felt exhausted, thin and stretched. His spine pulled toward the mattress as his vision danced in dark shadows. Something warm and solid pulled at his center….

"Captain…?"

"Who's the gatekeeper?" His voice was barely a whisper.

"That, Jim, is what I am attempting to discover."

* * *

"Hold still, Jim," McCoy said. He kept a hand on Jim's chin, trying to keep the young man's head steady as he examined the blue eyes. The scanner in his hand was no more than twenty millimeters in diameter, but it was the most powerful and sophisticated device the Federation had to examine optical nerves and vessels. The problem with the device was that it typically caused the patient some discomfort. Not many patients tolerated the intensiveness of the exam, and Jim was no different.

Jim closed his eyes tightly. McCoy kept his hand on Jim's chin and waited. The lights in the room had been lowered, partially for Jim's comfort – he had dilated Jim's pupils for the exam – and partially to enhance the effectiveness of the exam. The device worked better when it wasn't competing against light. Finally, Jim opened his eyes.

"Ready?" McCoy asked, scrutinizing his patient's face. The tension lines around the eyes gave clear evidence of Jim's discomfort. If that wasn't enough, the monitor above the bed left no question as to what the exam was doing to his patient.

Jim drew a shallow breath and nodded.

He activated the device again. "I figured I'd have to be holding you down to keep you from rushing out the door. Why so quiet?"

"Thinking."

"That's dangerous," he said easily, moving the device to scan the full length of the eye to see the retina wall. He felt Jim pull slightly against his hand. He tightened his grip, not wanting movement to interfere with the scan. "This have anything to do with your conversation with Spock?"

The muscles in Jim's jaw clenched, but he couldn't tell if it was from pain or irritation at the probing.

"Stay out of it, Bones. It's a command decision."

Irritation, he decided. "You're not in command now, Jim. Spock is. He made the best decision he could under the circumstances. You would have done the same."

"Put the ship in lockdown?" Jim said through clenched teeth. The vein at his left temple was popped out from the pale skin.

"You've done worse." He quickly moved the scanner to Jim's other eye, taking advantage of Jim's distraction. The small device was recording all nerve and vessel activity in the eye. He hoped the information would provide some answers as to why Jim still couldn't see. "Anyway, you weren't exactly cooperating with him, being unconscious and all. He's trying to put a puzzle together."

A yellow light blinked above Jim's head. The oxygen saturation level warning.

"Keep breathing," he told Jim easily. "I'm almost done."

"Locking down the ship isn't solving a puzzle." Jim's words were tight, his tone threaded with tension and pain. "It's crawling into a hole."

The muscles beneath McCoy's fingers were hard and trembling. Jim hitched in a breath.

"You're being hard on hi—"

Jim grunted softly and closed his eyes, tugging his chin out of McCoy's grip. Tiny beads of sweat peppered his forehead as he bowed his head, eyes closed tightly against pain.

"Okay, hold on." McCoy rose from the chair and put a supportive hand on Jim's shoulder as he stepped away to retrieve a small vial. He slipped the vial into a hypo and returned to Jim who had not opened his eyes. Returning a hand to Jim's shoulder, he said, "I'm going to give you something for the pain."

Jim sucked in his breath as McCoy pressed the hypo to the side of his neck and emptied the contents of the vial. Within seconds, the doctor felt the muscles in Jim's shoulder relax. Slowly, Jim's breathing evened out and the yellow warning on the monitor disappeared. McCoy stood in place, with a hand on Jim's shoulder, studying the monitor and wondering if releasing Jim to his quarters was such a good idea. Jim was still obviously having difficulty with oxygen exchange within his cells, not to mention the ocular pain. McCoy didn't want to risk him having a serious attack outside of Sickbay.

Jim opened his eyes. The stress around his eyes had disappeared and he looked incredibly young and vulnerable sitting on the bed, staring blankly ahead.

"Can I go now?" he asked.

McCoy smiled softly. "Just one more thing." He punched in a command on the PADD.

Jim growled lightly in frustration. "You're worse than a mother hen." He swayed slightly on the bed. "Dizzy. What'd you give me?"

He looked at Jim, who now looked sleepy. "A few things."

Jim frowned. "Are you going to let me out of here?"

"Yes, Jim. I'm going to let you out of here." The door hissed open and Chapel walked in carrying a small band.

She handed it to McCoy, but looked at Jim. "It's good to see you well enough to leave, Captain. We're going to miss you."

"I'd say the feeling is mutual, but I'd be lying." He rubbed a hand over his eyes, as if to ease the ache.

McCoy took hold of the other hand and secured the medical monitoring bracelet in place before Jim could protest.

"What's that?" Jim asked, tugging out of McCoy's grip.

"Just something for my peace of mind."


End file.
